


When You're Strange

by HoneyPot (BeepBeepBitchie)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 80's Music, Alive Georgie Denbrough, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But he is hot so here is a fanfiction about it, Eventual Smut, F/M, Musical References, Patrick is still fuckin' nuts, Reader is ready to FIGHT, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, So is Reader!Tozier tho, Toxic Relationships, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Victor Criss is gay fight me, no pennywise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepBeepBitchie/pseuds/HoneyPot
Summary: As a military brat, you've learned to pick up everything and run at a moments notice. Ending up back in Derry for your senior year and moving in with your aunt and uncle, you've come to realize that with Patrick Hockstetter's sights on you there is no room for running.





	1. Send Me An Angel

Derry, Maine was an awfully smaller town than you remembered it being. The winding back roads met trees and short clipped fields of grass, little rickety houses dotted here and there that used to make the town feel larger- more rural. The main strip was still barely a handful of blocks, the malt shop still in full swing of business, the movie theater down the street aging terribly in your opinion and sporting posters of new movies you knew you wouldn't bother to see.

Fitted between old buildings that had somehow withstand floods and the few hurricanes that had whipped up in Maine, were shiney new shops spruced up to meet the eager gaze of the new generation.

Fedex, a small Pizza Hut chain store, a Subway, a Super Cuts and, further down the street to your great surprise, a new arcade. All these stores that sucked the small town charm right out of Derry stared back at you while you drove down the strip, so beaten and tired that part of you could care less if you ran a red light at that point.

Slowing down as traffic ahead of you stopped for a crosswalk signal, you sighed, leaning your head against the headrest and watching as the blue tarp covering your truck’s trunk whipped in the brisk fall time breeze. Your cassettes had kept you plenty company from your long drive from Galveston to Derry, the casual passion that _Cyndi Lauper_ invigorated you with her number ones hits or the mellow but soulful lyrics of _The Cure_ had made your trip pleasant enough. _Talk Talk_ , _U2_ , _Depeche Mode_ , _Duran Duran_ , _New Order_ , _Tears For Fears_ , _Til Tuesday_? Man, did you have a crap load of music to toss at your cousin Richie when you finally arrived home.

Home. A wistful word, really. Your parents were your home, you thought bitterly as you drove forward, the cars ahead of you leading you down Main street, where you knew you’d have a few more streets to turn on until you arrived at the Toizer household.

You had lived in Derry once, before memories could really form, but with your father being in the military, you were tossed around the states like a limp hacky sack every few years. The only real constant had been when you visited Derry for a few weeks out of the summer in your younger years. All that fun had ended when your father had relocated to a base in Galveston Texas, and for the first time in a while, you had the chance to stay in one place for longer than a handful of months. Still, nothing could last forever, and your father had been called over seas where your mother was happy to follow, but keep you at bay.

“You’ll get to live with Uncle Wentworth and Aunt Maggie for a bit, sweetie. You have one more year of school anyhow, it's not fair to move you to a different country just to send you back home so you could attend college. It’s just for a year.” She had said, letting your father pack up your life- which could fit in two suitcases and a couple boxes - into the trunk of your car and send you on your way with a debit card and a hug.

You know she meant well. The fights, the tears, all the shitty grades and fucked up transcripts from moving so much had affected you as you grew up. Your mom, despite doing it in an unorthodox way, had really wanted you to have a stable life. As did your dad, and with his military lifestyle, it was hard to give that to you.

So off to Derry you drove, the debit card in your wallet and a heavy heart in your chest. You were going to miss your parents, but at least they had promised to call every once in a while.

You began to turn off Main and onto Costello Ave, but a thundering rumble down the street caught your attention and you slammed on the breaks just in time. Your truck lurched forward from the force, and you smacked a hand on your horn, letting it rip as a wicked blue Trans-Am shot past, the boys occupying it roaring with laughter and flipping the bird as they past.

“Learn to fucking drive!” You shouted after them and past your open windows, jerking your wheel to complete your turn and head down the other street. “Fuckin’ dicks.”

The cloudy day and lack of sleep made your short trip from the main street to Kansas a right pain in the ass, but you felt the irritation of almost being T-boned slip away as you pulled into the drive way of a decently well kept home.

It’s size was modest, with plank sliding painted a dreary grey color, its wrap around porch sheltered by an awning and the long limbs of an oak tree. You smiled to yourself, vivid memories of pushing a bespectacled nerdy little trashmouth on a tire swing and helping his dorky friends climb the monstrous and gnarled trunk giving you a nostalgic feel. From the second story of the home you saw curtains sway, a mop of dark curls all you could see before they disappeared.

You took the keys out the ignition, hopping out the rust bucket you called an automobile and tossing the door shut behind you. You rounded the front just in time to see the front door fly open and the lanky form of someone who at least _resembled_ Richie Tozier darted out.

“Oh my god!” He began in a booming voice, the sarcasm licking his words. “Houston! We have a problem and her name is [First Name]! I thought you’d show up lookin’ like some backwards hick, but I guess this is pretty close!”

Oh that was Richie alright. He was tall now, taller than you ever thought he could have achieved even with the magic of puberty, wearing heavy thick lensed glasses and a hideous printed hawaiian shirt you knew he just had to have digged out of a bargain bin from a thrift store. He still had a bit of baby fat to his cheeks, but otherwise he had toned and grown to be decently handsome, his freckles splattered like constellations across his pale skin. He looked so different, and you mentally cursed your aunt for not sending a christmas card the year before, because then you would have at least been prepared for the dork’s transformation.

“Can it, Trashmouth.” You threw your arms open, and he barreled into you, wrapping surprisingly strong arms around you as you shared a laugh.

He squeezed you tight, groaning. “Thank god you’re here, mom’s been yacking about you for days.”

“All good things?” You rubbed his back, patting his unruly curls as the two of you broke apart and he led you inside.  
“Oh yeah,” He rolled those big brown eyes of his, grinning widely. “She and Daddio are out at the store grabbing stuff for dinner, I have been ordered to help you start bringing stuff inside once you got here. Mom said something about you also needing to get your papers together for school or whatever.”

You made a face at that, scents of pine sol, laundry soap and the ever present lingering smell of lavender that the Tozier home instilled bringing you back to your childhood. Everything was the same as you had left it, right down to the crude childhood drawings your aunt Maggie had framed lining the entry way and the class photos of Richie from kindergarten to what you assumed was the present year, his freshman photo hanging on the walls.

“I just did a 29 hour road trip, come on, let a girl rest up Maggie.” You yawned, stretching arms above your head. “I got all my papers together though, but I wish she would let me have a few days off from this moving BS before she threw me into class.”

“Apparently you’ve never met Maggie and Wentworth Tozier, [First Name}, but, uh, newsflash,” Richie gestured widely, raising his eyebrows. “They’ve got sticks up their ass the size of Alaska.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” You smiled, nodding at the front door. “Lets do all that later, I’m pooped and MTV is on still right? Let’s chill and listen to some music.”

The curly haired boy gave a sigh of utter comical relief, leading you to the couch. “I was so worried Texas had changed you, dear cousin. Here i was, scared you would be into country and not the good shit.”

He flipped the tv on, twisting knobs to get a better picture on the fatback monstrosity before plopping down on the couch. You followed his stead, relief flooding you to be just somewhere familiar and safe as the two of you watched a music video for a new Cranberries song. Richie updated you on what mattered the most; The Losers Club.

You remembered the old names, Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough and Stan Uris had been childhood friends of Richie’s and you were happy to hear they were doing fine. You had been the tag along to countless of their adventures when you were younger and visited during the summers, and you could still remember their little ticks and mannerisms if you tried hard enough. To your surprise, there were more names added to The Losers Club. A redhead girl named Beverly Marsh (you vaguely remembered the name), Mike Hanlon and Ben Hanscom. The four dorks had become seven, you mused, and you sat back and let your cousin yap eagerly about how cool and amazing his friends were. You had missed alot it seemed, apparently Richie and his friends had attempted to lash out at the local group of bullies and won a single battle, but were now constantly met with their vengeance. Apparently the bullies, The Bowers Gang, were a right bag of dicks.

You caught yourself trying to think back on the names he said belonged to the older teens, but really came up with nothing.

“Henry Bowers sounds familiar, but that's it.” You shrugged, letting Richie rant about mullet wearing fuckheads and his lackeys, your mind wandering until your aunt and uncle arrived.

Dinner was a nice fatty roast with glazed carrots and baked potatoes. Your aunt rambled on, much like her son, about the happenings in Derry and about how excited she was that you had finally come back home. Your uncle was a man of few words, but even he agreed that he was happy to have you in Derry.

“You deserve the stability, hon.” He said with a smile, flashing pearly whites only a dentist could achieve. “Oh, and if you need a job, you can always come to me for a weekend job. We could use another receptionist or a filer, you know?”

“Thanks,” You said with a mouthful of roast, swallowing before continuing. “But mom and dad are funneling me money every so often. I’ll be fine, I’m going to focus on studying and whatever. SAT’s and college is just around the corner.”

“[First Name] gets a debit card and I can even get my lawn mowing money dad? Where the fairness in that?” Richie complained, tilting his head back and shoveling baked potatoes smothered in gravy and cheese in his mouth like it was going out of style.

“[First Name] doesn't spend her money on arcade games and tooth rotting candy, Richard.” Wentworth reminded sternly, raising a brow when his son rolled his eyes.

In truth, you money went to little more than clothes, a snack here an there and records. One of the boxes tucked into your trunk was nothing but your prized vinyl and an array of mix tapes you had carefully and painstakingly put together from radio rips. There were cigarettes too, but you barely smoked unless your nerves were shot, and even then, you weren't about to confess that to Wentworth and Maggie Tozier.

Your evening went smoothly and by the time Richie was dressed in his pajamas - a ratty Smiths t shirt and pajama pants that were too big on his hips - you had gotten everything in your room. Your uncle had supplied your room with proper furniture and, to your joy, a full sized bed. All your furniture, from the nightstand to your vanity situated across the room from your bed, was a nice shade of blue jean grey, stained the color from Maggie’s knack of flipping furniture. You supposed it fit, and once you unfurled your shaggy green rug and set it to the side of your bed that wasn’t pressed against the wall, it felt like it could be home.

Later in the week you would hang posters on the walls, maybe nab a quark board from the store and hang one by your door for assignments. Eventually you would have so much of your personality littering the spare bedroom that you wouldn't feel so out of place. It would take awhile before it all set in, but for now, the cool furniture and your shag rug was enough to make the cut.

“Wow, shag? Are you gonna pull out gogo boots too?” Richie quipped, kicking his legs from the edge of your bed where he sat, pushing his glasses up with a tired grin.

You hummed, stuffing a binder and empty folders into your backpack that your aunt had gotten you for school. “Nah, but I’m sure your mom still has hers.”

“Oh, gross, [First Name]” The boy gagged. “G. R. O. S. S.”

“Yeah, keep that mental picture for later tonight when you tickle your pickle.” You mused, snorting a laugh when Richie groaned in embarrassment. “Anyhow, I’m taking you to school tomorrow. We’re going early so i can get all my shit together for classes and not be late, so be up by six.”

“Six? Who are you. What have you done with my cousin?” Richie asked accusingly, pushing himself up form the bed and clapping a hand on your shoulder in farewell. “I’m out. See you in the morning.”

“Good night.” You called over your shoulder as he left, closing the door after he yawned in acknowledgement.

Surveying the contents of your backpack you decided it was good enough, slipping in your signed forms for school and your folder of copied transcripts. It was going to be a major pain to deal with all the BS of moving, but at least you’d be in one school for an entire year- even if you were already a month late.

You flipped your lights off, padding over to your bed and settling in. The blankets were warm and luxuriously thick so slowly, with the aid of your ceiling fans white noise, you drifted to sleep.

 

The buzzing of a alarm clock you had set jolted you awake and you rolled, facing the red blinking numbers as the machine continued it’s shrill alarm. 6:00am read the time as you heaved an angry moan, slapping a hand down on the snooze.

“Richie!” You yelled thickly, pausing to wait for a response. When you received none you threw yourself from the bed, sluggishly making your way down the hall to Richie’s room.

You stepped inside, knocking as you did so and smacked your lips, tasting sleep in your mouth and making a face. The teen boy still slept, curled under his sheets with insane looking bedhead and drool hanging out his mouth.

“Richie.” You called, and when he snorted and began to flip over, you flicked on the lights- efficiently blinding yourself but at least rousing your cousin.

“Holy shit, no, let me fuckin’ sleep.” He grumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Kid, I’m out of here in thirty. If you wanna walk to school, that's all on you.”

You waited a moment, giving him time to debate his choices, and smirked when he rose with a glare.

“I can’t see you. But wipe that smirk off your face, you dick.” He muttered, feeling around for his glasses as you swept from his doorway down to the bathroom, locking yourself inside.

 

By the time half an hour rolled around you and Richie were stomping down the front stairs, a cordless phone hooked under the lankier Tozier's ear as he babbled to his friend Eddie.

“Yeah man, me n’ [First Name] will be by to grab you in like five.” He paused as Eddie said something undoubtedly snarky, to which he replied. “Easy Ed’s, I’ll make it eight, Princess. Don’t make us wait.”

He dropped the phone on its station by the front door as you laced up your maroon colored docs, eyeing him.

“I’m not going to become a taxi service, Richie Tozier.” You warned lightly, fully aware that yes, yes you were going to be.

“If i have to go to school like forty-five minutes before class starts I at least deserve the company of Eddie, jeez.” He said back in his token sarcastic manner, tugging on ripped up vans and plucking a jacket out the entryway closet.

It was god awful, with rainbow stripes and a checkered black and white pattern down its sleeves. Looking at it practically gave you a brain aneurysm and you blinked furiously, trying not to focus on it. “Rich, what the fuck is that?”

“My bad ass windbreaker of course.” He slipped it on, his lips quirking into a smirk as he shoved his glasses further up his nose. “Like it?”

“I’m burning it as soon as I can.” you promised, opening the front door and ushering your younger cousin out. The chilly morning air was a wake up call and once the two of you piled inside the truck and you revved the engine while letting the inside cab warm up, and you began to sift through the box of cassette tapes buckled up in the front between you and Richie.

He followed suit, digging through them all and reading the labels. “The fuck is _A Flock Of Seagulls_?” He shook a particular tape and you gaped, snatching it and shoving it into the cassette player.

“Boy, you are about to LEARN.” You dipped the volume to nearly the max, knowing that if you blew your speakers it would be a goddamn tragedy, and began to roll down your window.

From your jacket pocket you procured a smashed pack of cigarettes, tapping the pack against your palm as one of your favorite songs began to play.

“Since when do you smoke?” Richie accused lightly, rolling his window down as well, but making sure the vents kept a warm breeze on him all the same.

You stuck a slightly crumpled cigarette between your lips, knowing that the agitation that buzzed through you was just nerves from entering yet another school and nothing else. “Since like, last year. Don’t tell your parents, or I’ll kill you.”

You began to back out, nodding your head along to the song, _I Ran_ , and once you got on the road you slowed a bit to light the cigarette.

Richie watched carefully as you took a drag, mesmerized by the sweet smelling smoke that curled out your mouth while you drove.

“Can… Can I try?” He asked meekly, looking hopeful.

You inclined your head to him, shaking it. “Absolutely not. It’s bad to smoke, Rich.”

“Come on!” he nagged, wiggling in his seat. “Just once?”

“Nah.” You flicked ash out the window, driving down familiar streets, still remembering exactly where the Kaspback house resided.

“Please?” He asked again, much to your annoyance. You rolled your eyes, and blew smoke at his face. He coughed, retreating far from you with a less than thrilled look. “Ew! Dont!”

“No smoking, Richie.” You said sternly, eyeing him out the corner of your eye as you made your way through Derry’s morning traffic. “And I will personally kick your ass if i catch you smoking, dont think I wont-”

A familiar roar of thunder and you stomped on your breaks yet again, this time tossing an arm out and effectively chopping your brat of a cousin across the chest as the same Trans-Am from the day before barreled past you.

You stuck your head out this time, screaming after them with uncapped rage. “FUCK YOU, LEARN TO DRIVE YOU CUNTS.”

Inside, you saw the flutter of a sandy blond mullet, beetle like eyes, and shit eating grins. The boys, close to your age you’d assume from the brief faces you caught, hooted and hollered as they shot downhill through main street, swerving in and out of commuters.

You pressed the horn, letting it match your fury before rolling the wheel around and turning down your chosen street, close to Eddie’s home.

“Oh my fuck,” Richie swiveled in his seat, the seat belt catching him as he attempted to look behind them at the Trans-Am that grew smaller in the distance. “HOLY SHIT, YOU JUST CUSSED OUT THE BOWERS GANG.”

With a tight frown you drifted through the suburbian roads, pulling up behind a tired and worn looking station wagon. “Those dicks are the Bowers Gang?”

“Uh, duh.” Richie shot you an incredulous look of awe, pushing open the creaky door of the passenger side and unbuckling himself when you came to a stop. “I’ll be back.”

You watched, attempting to finish your cigarette, as Richie ran across the finely manicured lawn to the front steps. He took them two at a time, knocking at the front door until a lithe little form of a boy appeared, his hair primped properly and wearing shorts despite the chilly weather. Eddie, who you would recognize from anywhere, called something over his shoulder before following Richie down the steps.

You waved from the wheel, smiling as the younger boy perked up. Quickly you stamped out the remainder of your death stick, tossing it out the window and shifting the cassette box onto the floorboards so Eddie could squeeze in with you and Richie.

“It’s nice to see you [First Name].” Eddie returned the smile, climbing into the truck and settling in the middle, buckling himself in as Richie threw himself inside and slammed the door closed. “It’s cool of you to drive us, thanks.”

“No prob.” you shrugged, Richie interrupting with a clearing of his throat.

“Onward, driver! To the ball!” He sang in a vaguely british accent, but you laughed all the same.

Eddie added a few more details about what had happened since your absence as you drove, happy to make small talk while Richie dug through your tapes and read off the bands. There were a few both boys were interested, so you allotted them to snag a few for later use. Both boys were in their freshman year, along with the rest of their little gaggle of friends. They assured you that you had a place with them at lunch later that day, but you already knew you’d be spending the break wandering around school and checking out places you could hide away and smoke during P.E. or in between classes.

By the time you parked in the student parking lot, Richie had stuffed a handful of tapes into his backpack for him to listen to with his walkman during class and Eddie had insisted you at least visit them during lunch.

“It’s Derry High. There isn’t much to see, and I know Bill and Stan would like to see you.” He stated simply, his smile genuine.

“I’ll see, but don’t wait up. I’ll take you guys home, if you want.”

“We’re going to Bill’s,” Richie opened his door, hopping out. “My bike is in the trunk under the tarp, right?”

“Yeah, your dad threw it in last night.” You mirrored his actions as Eddie hurried to slip out in time with you both.

Together the three of you walked across the asphalt, others arriving in a slow trickle. Somewhere through the growing crowds you heard a heavy bass and guitar rips. From the corner of you eyes you spotted that damn blue Trans-Am and cocked your head to the side as you watched four boys slip out the sleek vehicle.

They looked mismatched for each other, but in one way or another you guessed they complimented each other. One had a sandy blond mullet and despite the coat he wore, you noticed the bulk to his form. His eyes raked the parking lot, never resting on you thankfully, but searching for something in the very least.

A much taller boy, he easily over shot six feet, with a heavy set body had a tenseness to his shoulders as he whipped car keys on the hook of his finger, saying something to a much smaller boy. The smaller one had bleached blond hair and donned a torn band t shirt, but wore a much kinder face than his other counterparts. Lastly, stalking behind the one with the mullet, was a lanky boy. With dark hair and dark eyes, he swept the parking lot the same as his friend, but those beetle black eyes found you in a second. He was handsome, you decided quickly, but the shudder that his predatory gaze shot through you made warning bells go off through your mind.

With a sudden dry mouth, you swung back, walking backwards and examining the Bowers Gang further. After a step or two, and now with the attention of not one, but two members on you, you twisted back to walk up beside Richie and Eddie.

“The guy with the mullet,” Richie instantly flinched at your prompt, instinctively looking over his shoulder. “Do I know that guy?”

“Uh, thats Henry Bowers.” Eddie clarified, eyeing the boys with distaste as the three of you ascended the stairs to the back entrance of Derry High. “Why is he and Patrick Hockstetter staring at us? God, please don't tell me they’re going to torment us today. I have a science test and I’m not about to deal with Bower’s bullshit.”

“Don't worry, Eddie.” You smiled, opening the door for the freshmen. “They can't get you now. I’ll run them over with my truck.”

The boys filed in, sharing a distinct look of fear as they walked side by side. You glanced back outside once more, narrowing your eyes at the boys.

All four watched you now, leaning against the Trans-Am and even from the distance, you noticed how they shared a smirk.

Fuck. Guess you’ll have to run them _all_ over with your truck.


	2. A Little Respect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Welcome to chapter two of my Patrick / Reader fic.  
> Just a heads up, but every chapter title is matched to a song from the 80's / early 90's! The title, 'When You're Strange' is a song by Echo and The Bunnymen, i highly suggest checking the song out. Chapter one was 'Send Me and Angel' by Real Life. Chapter two is 'A Little Respect' by Erasure. I'll post future songs in the A/N as well, worry not. Eventually there will be a playlist, lmao.  
> Warning, though. This story is based off novel Patrick Hockstetter's personality, so strap yourself in for a BUMPY ride. There is going to be a little side Henry/Reader, but the main pairing is Patrick/Reader.  
> I'm posting this fic on my tumblr (@Pattycake-Hockstetter) so if you see it on there, dont worry about it.  
> This fic is nothing but 80's references, angry boys and an angry reader. Have fun with chapter 2!!! Chapter 3 comes out later!

Patrick Hockstetter watched from his seat on the trunk of Blech’s Trans-Am as Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak marched alongside a face he had never seen before. Both freshmen peeked over their shoulders, no doubt searching for himself and the rest of the Bowers Gang, and mouthed something to the mystery girl.

Beside him, Henry dug into the pockets of his winter jacket in search of a pack of smokes, already agitated so early in the morning.

“God fucking dammit,” Patrick hears him start, to which the lanky teen held out his own half used up pack wordlessly. “Uh, thanks.”

The mullet haired boy snagged a cigarette, pushing the death stick between his lips and lighting it with a shitty plastic lighter. He sucked on the filter, his eyes training on Richie Tozier’s god awful windbreaker and what surrounded him.

“Who the fuck is that with Tozier?” Bowers asked aloud, Belch and Vic pausing in their mindless chatter to follow Henry and Patrick’s gaze.

“No clue, look at the ass on that girl.” Vic said, his eyes flickering from Patrick’s stony stare to Henry’s own curious one.

“She looks familiar.” Henry muttered, letting out short puffs of smoke as he spoke, and he gestured at her with the hand holding his cigarette. “Doesn’t she?”

Patrick’s eyes trained on her as she spun around, walking backwards as the two dorks at her side made it to the staircase to the back entrance. There was a hardness to her a features, an ice to her stare that caught him off guard when they locked gazes. He felt his lips tilt into his token oh-so charismatic smirk, mirroring the rest of his friends. No doubt spooked by the heavy gazes of the boys she whipped back around, taking the stairs two at a time liken to the Tozier boy. Again the dork turned around, this time catching Henry’s gaze and hurrying to the doors to get inside, saying something else to the girl.

She held the door open for the boys, sparing the Bowers Gang one last glance before following in shortly after.

The dark haired teen brought his cigarette to his lips, eyes narrowed. “The new girl knows Tozier.”

Belch snorted, rolling the keys to his car on a finger, bored already. “Isn't she a little old to be part of the Losers Club?”

Vic gave a laugh that Blech quickly shared in, the two smacking each other as they fell into chuckles. Patrick was amused, but he choose to take a long drag of his cigarette and turn to Henry.

“She looks familiar, you said?”

Henry threw a half assed shrug in the dark haired teens direction, leaning against the Trans-Am. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter though I guess, she’s hanging out with Tozier, so she’s dead meat anyhow.”

The boys hummed in agreement, the other boys training their focus on other more important matters (How smokin’ Kelly McPike’s ass was, where the latest barn bash was going to be, ect.) while Patrick thoughtfully watched the entrance, the new girl on his mind.

What a cute little creation he made, he mused with a smirk. Stomping out his cigarette and blowing grey smoke out his nose he relaxed against the Trans-Am as the rest of Derry High began to arrive for classes. He hoped she’d entertain him, after all, it was her job.

 

* * *

 

You fished for your last handful of patience as the office clerk reread your transcript for the upteenth time.

“These are a mess, Miss Tozier.” Mrs. Donahue said over the rims of her glasses, watery blue eyes bloodshot and lashes coated with too much mascara. “But we sorted out your classes nonetheless.”

The woman heaved a great sigh, scribbling with a pen over your photo copied schedule for Derry High and underlining a few words.

“Sorry.” You apologized out of politeness, leaning against the front counter as other secretaries answered phones and filed papers. A space heater was set against a closed window, blowing gloriously warm air through the space, but even that wasn’t enough to force out the chill of an october morning in Maine.

Pressed against the opposing wall of the counter were a set of chairs that led down a walk of shame to the Principal and counselors respected offices, potted leafy plants living up the dull beige and grey space as well as they could. Derry High was a fairly old and boring looking school you determined as Mrs. Donahue spun around and shuffled through folders for more papers to give you. It was your, hm, fourth high school? Fifth. Yes, it was your fifth. You had stayed in Galveston for nearly two years, but before your sophmore year you recalled being dragged to Fort Benning Georgia, hot ass Las Vegas Nevada, as well as sunny Santa Cruz California and dreary, wet, and mucky Port Angeles Washington for high school alone.

All the schools had ugly popcorn ceilings, shiny new basketball courts and shitty libraries. You had the confidence to assume that Derry was no less shitty than the slew of schools you had attended before hand and not even close to as well maintained as the one from Santa Cruz which had been updated a year before you arrived.

Mrs. Donahue returned, slapping down a thick packet and handing you a pen. “Your aunt or uncle need to sign these for your school lunch, there are forms you need to sign for chemistry, woodshop if you decide to take it, and computer science.”

“Computer science?” You echoed with an excited smile. “With dial up and everything?”

Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Donahue scribbled something on the paper with your schedule. “I added the room number, check the class out during your study hall and make sure to tell us what you want your extracurricular to be by friday Miss Tozier.”

“Yes ma’am.” You nodded, reaching for the packet and your papers. “How many lunch periods are there?”

“Just one. We’re a small school. Seniors eat with freshmen and everyone else.” The older woman explained in an exhausted tone, as if she had been asked this thousands of times. “Now head to homeroom, which serves as your study hall as well, don’t forget to ask for a hall pass if you want to visit computer science class.”

You nodded eagerly, offering the tired woman a big grin as you carefully slid your packet in the pouch of your backpack, taking the schedule in your hands and leaving the office with a wave.

“Thank you ma’am!” You called over your shoulder, to which Mrs. Donahue huffed and rolled her eyes.

You heard the distinct mutter of “Tozier” before the office door closed behind you while you started down the hall.

Your schedule was pretty decent, and you thanked your lucky stars you had already aced the hardest classes in your junior year. You had passed physics with flying colors thanks to that ‘Tozier Brain’ your father’s family had been blessed with, and your required math and history classes were over with thanks to doubling your workload in Galveston. For now, with special request of your parents and honestly of yourself, you had a nice and easy schedule for the year to focus on college.

 

**Monday-Thursday:**

**First Period** \- (Homeroom) English Literature with Mr. Adams

 **Second Period** \- Basic Calculus with Mr. Harvey

 **Third Period** \- World History with Mrs. Clever

_**Lunch** _

**Fourth Period** \- Physical Education with Coach Feldman

 **Fifth Period** \- Chemistry with Mr. Banks

 **Sixth Period** \- Unchosen Extracurricular

 **Seventh Period** \- Study Hall with HOMEROOM

 

** Friday: **

**First Period** \- (Homeroom) English Literature with Mr. Adams

 **Second Period** \- Basic Calculus with Mr. Harvey

 **Third Period** \- World History with Mrs. Clever

_**Lunch** _

**Fourth Period** \- Physical Education with Coach Feldman

 **Fifth Period** \- Chemistry with Mr. Banks

 **Sixth Period** \- Unchosen Extracurricular

_**EARLY RELEASE** _

 

“Sweet,” You grinned, glad to know you’d be getting an extra hour or so on fridays to dick around with.

Written in chicken scratch across your printed schedule was the classroom to Computer Science and your locker number with its code, where you quickly glanced alongside the lockers you strode by to check how far you were.

“229.” You mumbled, inching closer to the lockers as students flew past you and walked down the halls in little cliques. You were in luck, because a handful of painted grey-green lockers later and you had found the one that now belonged to you.

You set to work on the original lock, unlatching it in record time and swinging your backpack around to dig inside for the personal one you brought from home. You hooked it on, dumping the school lock in your bag and figuring you’d drop it off with your paperwork the following morning before lazily tossing the locker door open and peering inside.

It was surprisingly clean, devoid of stale gum and with only a few rubbed down stickers tacked to the inside of the door to let you know someone had owned the hunk of metal prior. With your backpack still turned around you took out a magazine clipping and magnet set Richie had offered to lend you the night before, pinning the handsome face of Keifer Sutherland to your locker door with chunky circular magnets.

You knew that your locker would be a right mess by the end of the month and you were eager to clip and tape up Depeche Mode, Duran Duran and Pixies all over the place. Maye you’d get Richie to doodle you a few photos of your favorite horror movie villains or something, just you really bring it all together. For now, Kiefer was plenty company and you smiled to yourself, picturing the personal touches that would soon grace your own little space of Derry High.

You were unaware of the eyes on you, and as you began to move Richie’s borrowed magnets along the inner side of the locker door, you flinched as a hand came to slam your locket close.

The lock rattled from the force and you smacked a hand over it, clicking it close before raising your head to meet a steely gaze.

“Watch it.” You snapped, zipping your bag shut and shouldering it with a huff.

The boy with a styled mullet sized you up, eyes raking you as he flexed the muscle lining his now exposed arms. He had a rather impish face, with an upturned nose and hard looking blue eyes. Sun kissed skin that had a few splattering of freckles crinkled when he made a displeased face.

“Who the fuck are you, new girl?” He jerked his chin, and behind him the hulking form of a heavy set boy with fat cheeks and flashing eyes of a dark brown color appeared. He looked as tough as who you assumed was his leader, if not more so, with a thick letterman jacket on his shoulders and a dirty yankees cap on his close buzzed head.

“A new girl.” You said simply, attempting to back up, and meeting the chest of a tall individual. You felt your tongue prod your cheek, irritated now. It was your first day, you didn’t need to be harassed so early. You trained your eyes upwards, rolling them back to the mullet haired boy when you saw the tall lanky form of the boy with long dark waves standing behind you with a serpentine smile.

The platinum blond boy from the Trans-Am hovered to your side, the four boys creating a perfect blockade.

“Come on boys, ain’t it a little early for harassment?” You quipped, quirking an eyebrow.

“We can end the harassment early if you just tell us your name, princess.” Came a velvety drawl from behind you.

“It’s that easy.” The mullet haired boy agreed, pushing off from the locker. He shifted the winter coat he had taken off from earlier onto a shoulder of his, looking darkly curious. “And how do you know Trashmouth Tozier?”

“He’s my cousin.” You said offhandedly, whipping an arm out, surprising the smallest of the group and cutting a path between the platinum blond boy and his dark haired friend. You slipped past them before a reaction could be made, spinning on your heels and shooting the boys a collective round of finger guns. “Later losers.”

You spun back around, weaving in between students in a hurry as the boys scrambled to catch up. You heard the mullet haired boy shout after you, but you ducked down another hall and sprinted to the staircase, taking two at a time and rushing past other students on the stairs, out of the Bowers Gang’s sight.

Flushed and cursing your lack of confidence, you paused by a set of water fountains to catch your breath. It was there what you heard someone shout your name over the crowds, and a familiar head of curls came into view.

“Ay! She lives!” Richie threw his arms out in greeting, giving you a hug before shooting you a worried look. “You good, [First Name]?”

Eddie trailed behind him, as well as a huddle of faces, both familiar and not. They all shared Richie’s worried expression but you covered up the mild panic from earlier and laughed.

“Yeah, just getting in my sprinting before track starts or whatever.” You hugged Richie back quickly, parting from him and leaning against the fountains.

“W-wow.” Stuttering only slightly, a blue eyed Bill Denbrough inched forward, giving you a big smile. “You s-s-sure grew up, [First Name].”

You gasped in mock surprise. “My god, Bill? The Billy Boy? Shit, you’re the one that grew up. Look at you!”

The two of you enveloped each other in a hug and you squeezed him tight. “Oh my god Bill you’re so god damn tall.”

The boy laughed, squeezing you back as another freshman stepped out from the group. With a mop of ringlet curls, slight shoulders and prim and proper wardrobe, you already knew who it was.

“Stan the man!” You spun from Bill, catching Stanley Uris is a big bear hug that he awkwardly returned.

“[First Name],” He murmured, but you saw a smile light his features right up. “You look well, sorry that you made it back to Derry of all places.”

“How come I didn't get a hug?” Eddie complained from beside Richie. Richie snorted, dropping an elbow to rest on the much smaller boy’s head.

“I’ll get to everyone.” You vowed, giving Stan’s torso one last hard squeeze before backing off and beaming at the three new faces. “And I mean everyone. I’m [First Name] Tozier, cousin, teacher, defender, curator of rockin’ jams.”

“Taxi service.” Richie added helpfully, Eddie snorting a laugh at the frown you shot him.

The three newcomers returned your smile with earnest, genuinely seeming excited to meet you. A girl, the only girl of the group, came forward immediately. With curls of auburn and a smile that burned with warmth, she wrapped arms around you in welcome.

“I’m Beverly, call me Bev.” She said, parting from you and gesturing to a heavier boy with a chestnut brown hair and big blue eyes. “This is Ben.”

“Hi!” Ben greeted, shifting his backpack around and unzipping a pouch before pulling out a cassette tape. “Richie’s been talking about you all summer since his parents heard you were moving back. He told us you really like music, so all of us picked a song and I made this mixtape for you. Hope you, uh, like it?”

You took the tape that was offered, flipping it over and reading the title. ‘Welcome To The Losers Club’ was written across the front with sharpie, with a foil gold star stuck to the corner in decoration.

“Holy shit, this is fantastic.” You breathed, flipping the cassette over in your hands and reading the list of songs. “You have great taste, you guys.”

“It’s The Police that really make the tape.” Said the only boy who had yet to speak, his eyes crinkled as he laughed with Ben and he held out a hand for you to shake. “Mike Hanlon, It’s great to finally meet you. Bill and Eddie told us a few wild stories about you from a few years ago.”

You took the hand, shaking it but wishing he had wanted a hug. You were a hugger, and if the recipients of your affections were your little cousin’s best friends, then it made all the more sense to share in the love. You squinted back at Eddie, who looked back at you with an innocent expression.

“Was it the wasp nest story?” You asked, pocketing the mixtape as Mike stood beside Stan.

“Uh, no?” Mike chuckled.

“Metal baseball bat story?”

“No?”

“The small, but very powerful, flame thrower story?”

“Dude!” Richie gasped, smacking Eddies chest. “I fuckin’ remember that from the summer of fifth grade!”

“Dear god,” Mike looked vaguely horrified now. “You are a Tozier, aren't you?”

Beverly and Ben had fallen into a fit of laughter, leaning with Bill and Stan who seemed unphased by all this, and practically doubling over with laughter.

“Last guess, was one the fruit doodler one?” You rose your eyebrows, hopeful of the more PG rated antic from years past.

“Yes. One was the darn fruit doodler.” Mike shook his head, brown eyes bright with delight. “I want to know the backstory to all those other ones though.”

“Maybe another time, Mike.” You snickered, rolling up the sleeve of the windbreaker you had on and checking the time on your wrist watch. “But it’s like five minutes until class and I need to split.”

“Hasta la vista, familia!” Richie called after you as you dipped out of the group, the two of you sharing a wave before his group of friends began to disperse.

Finding english was easy enough really, it was down the hall an to your right. Walking inside you let your backpack fall off your shoulder, heading to the teachers desk with your schedule in hand.

“Hey, Mr. Adams.” You stirred a middle aged man from his reading, and watched as he lifted his head up and shifted his glasses up on his nose. “I’m [First Name] Tozier. I’m new.”

“Oh, Miss Tozier!” Mr. Adams’ eyes lit up, and he smiled. Rising from his desk, he rounded the hunk of wood and dragged a handful of worn down novels from a bookshelf beside his office area. “I got word about you last week, here’s all the assigned reading for the semester.”

You held open your arms, letting the books fall in a stack as the mustachioed teacher rambled on. “We’re doing ‘ _The Catcher In The Rye_ ’ at the moment, and the first test already passed, but don’t worry about it.” He waved a hand is dismissal, more students filing in from the halls as you stood up front looking lost and confused. “The second test is this friday, do you think you could finish chapter eight by then?”

“Uh,” You shifted the books in your arms, glancing at the covers. “I’ve read and finished a course on the book already, actually.”

Mr. Adams seemed surprised. “Really? Well…” He paused, pursing his lips before shrugging. “If you wrote me a report on the book and did a few sample questions on the plot and subtext, then you could skip the course. No point in taking a month and a half out of your education to just study a book you’ve already read.”

“Thanks,” you breathed in relief. “I’d be over the moon to get that book report and sample stuff to you, call it a deal.”

“Well, glad that’s all sorted out. Stay up here a moment until class starts,” He caught the slight disappointment in your eyes. “Come on, it’s just an introduction. You’ll be fine, Miss Tozier.”

The last of your classmates trickled in, the bell ringing shrilly as the seniors in your class chatted amongst themselves.

Mr. Adams strode to the front, a copy of _The Catcher In The Rye_ in hand, clearing his throat loudly.

“Alright everyone settle down.” He called, gaining the attention of his students before he gestured to you. “This is Miss Tozier, shes new. Now, on the first day of class all my seniors know I do a nice little ice breaker to make everyone more comfortable. So here it goes, Miss Tozier. What your name, your favorite song, and since you moved here, where are you coming to Derry from?”

You clicked your tongue, breathing in and opening your mouth to speak before the classroom door jerked open.

The Bowers Gang swept in, only the one with platinum blond hair caring to have a backpack, all of them snickering and muttering to themselves. Mr. Adams heaved a great sigh.

“Couldn't you four at least attempt to get in on time? Doesn’t matter, just sit down, Miss Tozier is introducing herself so behave.”

Like a pack of wolves, the boy’s collective attention set on you in a second. The one with dark hair, who you regretted to call handsome despite his good looks, sneered at you.

“Another Trashmouth in Derry? Great.”

“Can it Hockstetter,” Mr. Adams snapped, pointing to the row of empty seats in the back. There were four all together, and you felt a lump in your throat when you saw that the only empty chair besides the row was a lonely one beside a window right ahead of the line of chairs. “Go sit, the lot of you. And your homework is due, Bowers. Don’t forget.”

Hockstetter’s tongue darted out his mouth as he rounded you, tensing to lean down for a quick reaction before he stalked down the aisle to the chair right behind the odd empty one. Great. The mullet headed boy waved Mr. Adams off, leading the last two boys to the back row and settling down.

Mr. Adams shot them reproachful looks before nodding back at you.

“Name, favorite song, where you’re from, please, Miss Tozier.”

“Ah,” You grimaced, shifting from foot to foot. “My name’s [First Name] Tozier. I can’t pick a favorite all time song, but today I’m feeling pretty good about DramaRama, so I guess Anything Anything is a good ticket. I was actually born in Derry.” You saw the mullet haired boy perk up with interest, and you exhaled sharply. “But my dad is in the military so I, uh, moved a lot.”

You stood in front of the class for a moment longer before Mr. Adams gave you a curious look.

“Really? Derry born? You don’t look it.”

You frowned at that, not sure if to take it as a complement. Was it the maroon doc martens? The dark wash jeans splattered with paint and stained with motor oil? Maybe if Mr. Adams saw the and t shirt of The Smiths underneath your navy windbreaker he would say something else too. You shook the sudden insult, shrugging instead.

“Yeah. I grew up here until i was, like, six?” Your face scrunched up as you tried to think. “I lived on costello or whatever. Then my dad got shipped off to a new base once he became active duty again. I’ve bounced around a lot since then, but my parents are overseas now and since I’m heading to college next year hopefully, they wanted me to stay with my aunt and uncle.”

“Ah, I know your uncle Wentworth.” Mr. Adams nodded. “What college are you hoping to get into, what are you going to study?”

Already uncomfortable with being up for so long you shot the teacher a tired look. “I have a lot of options, but I’m not sure yet. Can i sit now? The books weigh a god damn ton.”

“Language.” Mr. Adams warned lightly, gesturing to the back and in the direction of the window seat in front of the boy he had called ‘Hockstetter’. “Take a seat in front of Patrick.”

Oh. Patrick. The goon had a real name now.

You stole away to your seat, dropping the stack of required reading a top your desk and plopping down in your seat with a huff. Mr. Adams began to speak, instructing everyone to pull out their copies of The Catch In The Rye. You did as he asked, despite knowing you’d be finishing a report for him by the end of the week, flipping the novel open and pretending not to notice when Patrick Hockstetter’s eyes bored into your back.

“So, Trashmouth.” The boy whispered from behind you, the creak of him leaning across his desk causing you to tense up. “Why’d to run away? Afraid of the Bowers Gang already?”

“Do you have a pencil?” You turned in your seat, changing the subject, holding the power of the conversation.

Patrick’s eyes, not black like you had thought before, but a mesmerizing grey-green, lit up in amusement. “So you’re Bucky Beaver’s cousin? I can kinda see the resemblance. You have that token snarky Tozier look about you.”

“Do you see a gross hawaiian shirt and aneurysm inducing windbreaker, buddy?” You whispered, wiggling your fingers. “Pencil or no, dude?”

From the sidelines, a yellow stick was hurled at you. You caught it in time, flinching as you did so and searching the back row for the culprit.

The mullet haired boy’s eyes moved from you to the front, his copy of _The Catcher In The Rye_ missing and his hands stuffed securely in his jeans pockets.

“Thanks.” You mouthed to him, hoping he saw it. Twisting back around, you opened a notebook from your backpack, setting to drafting a copy of your report to pass the time.

“Trashmouth.” You heard behind you, your seat just barely knocked against with a boot.

You ignored Patrick, scribbling in your neat penmanship. Eventually he grew bored in attempting to gain your attention and settled to bounce his boot against the leg of your chair, shaking the seat with his ministrations.

You, again, ignore this. By the time class came to an end the the bell rang, you had filed the pencil lead down and you sharpened it quickly as your classmates rose to leave. Satisfied with its now lengthed tip, you stood from your seat, gathering your things before turning around. Patrick slammed against your shoulder as he strode past you, smirking when you bit back a gasp of surprise.

You glared after him, but returned your attention to the mullet haired teen who stood up in time with yourself.

“Thanks.” You muttered, offering the pencil back.

“It’s not mine.” He said evenly, his blue eyes piercing. “Keep it, Trashmouth.”

You clicked your tongue. “Your loss, dude.”

Turning, you headed down the aisle. “My name’s Henry Bowers, Tozier, remember it!”

You rolled your eyes at the dramatics, seeing Patrick at the door and purposefully distracting him with your weight as you slammed into his shoulder like he had yours.

“Watch it, Tozier.” He spat, dusting off his worn out leather jacket while you passed him, turning your nose up at the sight of him.

“Likewise, Hockstetter.” You said, lacing an obvious warning in your words as you walked off, in a hurry to get to your next class.

 

Lunch was a god forsaken miracle and by the time you walked into the cafeteria, you were hangry enough to rip the throat out of the next person who irritated you and eat them raw. With a lunch pin written on your hand you snagged a basic meal of grilled cheese and a bag of chips, paying extra for the luxury of a coke and taking your tray from the line to find somewhere to eat. You saw Richie waving manically from across the lunch room, but you gave him a token finger gun and nodded outside, wanting to spend the later half of your lunch smoking a well deserved cigarette.

He seemed disappointed, but when Stan dragged him back down to sit, he quickly resumed whatever Richie-babble he had been spewing a moment before and forgot about you.

The cafeteria lead outside through heavy metal doors to an outside sitting area, where you plopped your meal down and climbed to sit a top the table, opening your bag of salt and vinegar chips and beginning a nice lunch.

Oh so you thought.

Half way through your grilled cheese, you saw the metal doors you had walked through earlier throw themselves open. You had a cigarette lit in one hand, and while taking a long (very long) drag, you watched as The Bowers Gang spilled out from the cafeteria, jestering with each other and holding cans of soda.

“Oh shit, its Trashmouth 2.0!” Sang the platinum blond, nodding in your direction with a nasty grin. All four roared with laughter, swaggering over to you with taunting expressions.

You smiled thinly, letting curls of smoke leave your mouth. “I’d like to think I’m the original model, but okay boys.”

You took a bite of your sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as they swarmed you. “I still don’t know your names.” You reminded yourself more so than them, pointing two fingers at the tallest and smallest of the group.

“Where are out manners?” The blond snarked. “Vic. This is Belch.”

As if to confirm the existence of his name, the hulking mass of a boy let a loud gurgle rip from his throat, probably aided by the carbonation of his soda.

“Lord have mercy, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” You waved a hand in front of your face, catching a distinct whiff of chicken salad and orange crush.

Henry climbed the table you sat atop, dropping himself beside you and snagging a handful of chips. He stuffed a few on his mouth. “Ugh, gross, salt and vinegar. The fuck?”

“The unsung heroes of the snack world, thanks idiot.” You snatched the bag back, puffing on your cigarette before purposely blowing smoke in his face. He narrowed his eyes at the action, but let them carefully watch you as you leaned back on your palms with your cigarette between your lips and chips resting on your lap. “When's the interrogation over? I’m getting bored.”

Patrick hovered, much to your hidden distress, on the other side of you. Those grey-green eyes flashed as you tried to play it cool, his lips twitching.

“Interrogation? We’re just hanging out, Tozier.” Henry drawled, nodding at your cigarette. “Got anymore?”

“None for you, Bowers.” You said easily. “Especially not when you torment my little cousin and his friends.”

“Not our fault they’re the losers club.” Belch offered, sipping his soda from beside Vic.

“Ah, come on Princess.” Patrick smirked beside you, plucking the cigarette from your lips. Your nostrils flared in annoyance and you watched him take a drag from your cigarette. The others chuckled at Patricks action, but you chose to keep yourself composed enough to glare. “Sharing is caring.”

“How about i share the tire iron in my truck with your kneecaps, Hockstetter.” You threatened with a hiss, pushing yourself up and snatching the cigarette back.

The boys howled at that, Henry giving a savage grin while Patrick sneered down at you with open hostility. “Don’t threaten what you can’t promise, Princess.”

You stamped the cigarette out on the concrete table, picking up your backpack and taking your soda, leaving your lunch forgotten. “Listen, fellas.” You hopped off the table, shouldering the backpack.

You had their attention now, all eager to hear you continue, much to your irritation.

“It’s a goddamn promise, that if you pick on Richard Tozier and his friends while i’m around, that I will send all of you to the emergency room. Whether it’s with a tire iron or my god damn fist, I swear I’ll knock you down a peg or two.”

You eyed the boys for good measure, backing up to the cafeteria doors with a icy glare. They clapped in mock admiration, calling after you with taunts.

“See you later then Princess!”

“Can’t wait for the date, Trashmouth!”

Little did they know that it really was a promise, and you’d take the beating to prove it.


	3. Rebel Yell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta for this story and as many times as i go over this thing, i always seem to make mistakes. Sorry, I'll fix them eventually.  
> Chapter title: Rebel Yell - Billy Idol  
> Also, warning for violence, AYYYY

“You gotta death wish, don’t you?” Richie pushed his glasses up the length of his nose, squinting at you while you worked at the straps of the blue tarp that shielded your trunk.

“What’s that thing you guys yell at Richie when he’s being a pest?” You asked Eddie, not bothering to look at either boys while you climbed into the back of your truck, tossing the tarp aside and hauling Richie’s bike to the tailgate.

“Beep Beep Richie.” They spoke in unison, your cousin rolling big brown eyes and bouncing on his heels.

“I’m just saying, threatening the Bowers Gang? Really? We all saw you doing it from the cafeteria. You’re here for like, I dunno, less than 36 hours and you’re already picking a fight with those shit lickers?” Richie continued, taking the handle bars of his bike and helping you lower it to the parking lot asphalt.

“He’s got a point.” Eddie chimed in, much to your chagrin. The freshmen shared a look between them as you hopped out the back of your truck before slamming the tailgate closed with a satisfying clap.

You leaned against it, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your windbreaker and giving them an even look.

“Listen, I’m just…” You trailed off, sighing. “I dunno, trying to get them to back off? They seem to genuinely scare you guys. I thought it would help to let them know that I’d take a bat to their heads, y’know?”

Richie threw a long leg over his bike, Eddie climbing to sit on the edge of the seat that the taller boy left him. “Just don’t get yourself killed, we can take care of ourselves.”

Wearily your cousin kicked off, pedaling slowly to round your vehicle. “I’ll see you later.”

“By Eddie!” You raised a hand still stuck in your pocket, Eddie shifting to wrap his arms around Richie’s thin torso and waving back at you. “Make him come home by eight!”

“Nine!” Richie challenged, working his legs to pedal faster and out of ear shot before you could argue. In the distance, you saw him encircle Bill and Stan as they kicked off from their bikes, Beverly riding on Mike’s handal bars and Ben chasing after the other six as he quickened his pace to follow the group out the parking lot.

You clicked your tongue, dragging your keys from your pocket and slipping into your truck. Your backpack sat in the passenger side the two boys had occupied that morning, folded in on itself and limp. You leaned over after stuffing the keys in the ignition to let the car idle, shoveling out the contents in search of the mixtape that had been gifted to you. It took a moment, but you found it, hidden under the gym uniform given to you during your fourth period P.E. class. You had put it in your pocket earlier, but changing had forced you to toss it in your backpack for safe keeping.

Again, you flipped the tape to read over the songs. Beverly had chosen the first song, a Psychedelic Furs classic, ‘ _Pretty In Pink_ ’. Mike had chosen The Police’s hit ‘ _Message In A Bottle_ ’, Bill had gone surprisingly wayward and picked a Depeche Mode song ‘ _Policy Of Truth_ ’. Someone was going through an edgy phase, you mused, impressed nonetheless. Ben as a wildcard with his Billy Idol choice, and you smiled a little, finding that his pick of ‘ _Rebel Yell_ ’ was a perfect fit for you at least.

Stan had thrown in a surprise guest, Pat Benatar’s ‘ _Heartbreaker_ ’. You had always wondered what kind of taste the Uris boy had, but honestly, Pat wasn’t too much of a surprise. He seemed like the type to enjoy dramatic and passonate lyrics like those you’d find in Pat Benatar’s music. Eddie had picked a Cyndi Lauper song that held a special place in your heart, ‘ _The Goonies r’ Good Enough_ ’. You still had vivid memories of watching The Goonies with the four original nerds when it came out in theaters during a small gap in summer when you had flown up to Derry for a visit. It had been easy enough to convince them to dress up with you and go adventuring with them by the barrens, and easier still to let Richie and Bill lead the way for the five of you to build a crappy little fort in the woods.

Richie’s contribution was what really made you beam though, his carefully chosen song for you was a personal favorite of yours. ‘ _How Soon Is Now_ ’ by The Smiths.

You carefully switched out the tapes, retiring the other one to your wrinkled and torn up cardboard cassette box that rested in the beaten up floorboards of your cab and taking off as the slow rhythmic beats of The Psychedelic Furs filled your truck.

You carefully searched the parking lot for any sign of a blue Trans-Am, surprised not to see any edivdence of it. You shrugged off a rather nervous feeling in your gut at the observation, figuring the Bowers Gang must have snuck out of school after lunch. They didn’t exactly seem like the type to conform to the social norm and actually attend a full day of school anyhow.

The greenery in Derry was a nice change from the ever browning palm trees and sandy tropical gardens of Galveston. The skies were just as blessedly blue, streaks of cream casting cool shadows from the clouds that covered Derry on that October afternoon. It didn't reek like the ocean in the small town, it wasn’t clogged with smog, and the muggy heat of texas had thankfully not followed you north. You felt close to your element in Derry, to your great surprise. It was the right kind of environment for you, but you would admit to already missing the bustling populace of Houston or even the smaller city of Sugarland.

Rolling down your window, you left Derry High behind you, creeping down Pasture Road before turning down the Kissing Bridge to cut over to Canal Street and head back home. You neared the overpass that stood above the canal ways, but slowed with a curse when you spotted that goddamn blue Trans-Am.

It sat empty, but what worried you the most was the pile of bikes left forgotten by the roadside, completely deserted. 

“Fuck.” You swore, pulling off to the side and snatching your keys out, kicking the driver side door open in a rush. You hesitated a moment in silent deliberation, eyeing a tool beneath the cassette box.

A sudden hoarse yelp of pain, one you listened to with horror when you recognized it as Richie’s, decided your actions for you. You shoved the cassette box aside, grabbing the heavy tire iron from the floorboards and jumping out the car. You flew through the underbrush by the bridge, hearing what sounded like grunts and swears- namely from the mouth of your Trashmouth cousin.

You stumbled out of the woods, finding a break in the path and crashed out in a flurry of crunched up leaves and panic, tire iron raised.

From the looks of it, you had ended up by the canalside, the rocks littered with the fighting forms of your cousins friends and four enraged, hostile and very unlucky seniors.

Eddie was out cold, face pressed into the ground, a little scratched up but seeming mostly unharmed. Stan was attempting to over power Belch’s hulking mass, who had Bill’s collar in a death grip and was smacking him around like a rag doll. Mike was taking on Patrick and Vic alongside Beverly and Ben, the latter of who was flushed in the face and positively livid. Mike’s torn lip and Beverly’s scraped knees were nothing compared to the absolute wreck that was Richie Tozier’s face however.

Glasses? Shattered. Lip? Busted, bruised and split. Richie’s nose bent at an awkward and certainly painful angle, and there was a long cut alongside his eye, as if someone had carved him with a knife or a piece of glass. That didn't stop his mouth from flapping though, and even with his cracked voice and split lip he shot zingers like the Tozier he was.

“You fucking-” He spat at Henry Bowers, who wrestled with the smaller boy and dug his back into the tough and jagged rocks of the canalside. “Bruce Springsteen lookin’ mother fucker!”

“Aw? Mad, Flamer?” Henry taunted, gritting his teeth and driving Richie harder against the stones. “Upset we knocked out your little faggy boyfriend?”

He cocked his fist back, knuckles bruised and red with Richie’s blood.

You launched into action, roaring with a feral rage and lurching off from the path, bringing your weapon down on Henry’s side with as much weight behind it as you could muster.

“FUCK-” Bowers howled, clutching his side and pushing himself off Richie, who gurgled some kind of greeting that you didn't hear, your vision going red as you knocked Henry further back with the bottom of your docs.

You raised the tire iron, eyes burning and teeth bared, bringing it down where the mullet haired boy would have been if he hadn’t scrambled back.

From your side vision you spotted Belch, who was coming at you with arms out, ready to take you down. Side stepping him, you knocked against his back using the tire iron with a positively bruising force, kicking him for good measure as well and returning your focus to Henry.

“What did I say?!” You screamed, throwing the weapon down again and again, growing more and more irritated as you missed him.

“You’re fucking crazy! Bitch!” Henry spat, pushing up from the ground and scattering pebbles in his wake.

“What did I say?!” You repeated with even more venom, Vic and Patrick hovering beside Belch, who watched your dance with Henry wearily.

“You’re dead!” Henry ignored your prompt, pointing at you and digging into his pocket, whipping out a knife.

You gripped the tire iron tighter, eyes flashing and lip curling. “I like my odds, Bowers. Do you like yours?”

Blue eyes flickered to his wounded friend and the other two who seemed content to keep out of this particular fight. “Get her, Patrick.”

“With pleasure.”

You whirled around, slashing at the lanky boy who was a safe distance from you, a wild look in your eyes. “You think I’m above kicking your ass too, Hockstetter? Don’t fuckin’ try me!”

Patrick edged around Belch, watching you carefully. “Why don’t you settle down, Princess?”

Adrenaline pounded through you, your blood a rush in your ears. You let out a growl, pointing at him with the weapon. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance, Hockstetter.”

“[First Name]!” Stan shrieked, the crunch of pebbles shifting with weight alerting you back to the threat that loomed behind.

Spinning with the weapon ready, you landed a solid blow on Henry’s shoulder, but he had used your distraction to his advantage and you felt the white hot hiss of a cut rake down your right arm. The knife sliced through your windbreaker easily, slicing your forearm good, and scarlet poured freely as Henry stumbled back, looking pained.

Panic set in now, Patrick’s presence hovering along the sidelines, a snarl at his lips and Henry raised his knife in silent challenge once more.

“One more good whack, Bowers, and you’re in the hospital.” You sneered, rolling the weapon to your other hand, knowing you’d be sloppy with the change, but still effective. You spared Patrick a glare. “And I’ll aim for your head, Hockstetter.”

“Sounds tough coming from you, Tozier.” He taunted, a bottle of hairspray shaking in his hand as he fixed on you with an eerie gaze. “I’ll melt that Trashmouth right off your pretty little face.”

You saw the kids scramble to Richie and Eddie, the Bowers Gang focused on you entirely. Belch attempted to rise, but stumbled back down in a kneel, swearing. You had gotten him good, it seemed. Vic didn't want to press the matter at hand, attempting to help his friend stand instead of facing you.

You winced, bending your wounded arm and taking your keys out of your pocket, hurling them at Beverly, who caught them with an uncertain look.

“Get in the truck, have it running. Id im not out in five, drive.” You ordered tensely, eyes flickering between Patrick and Henry, the latter of whom seemed to be having trouble standing, his breathing uneven and restless.

The freshmen swarmed the two broken boys, your cousin fighting their helping hands and calling after you. You ignored him, waiting for either of the bullies that crowded you to make their move.

“What now, boys?” You carefully stepped to the side, eyeing them as you edged back to the path that would lead you to the truck, Richie’s friends racing away with him and Eddie in tow.

A spout of fire that curled and preened shot out at you, Patrick closing in all too fast in response. You swore, not expecting him to have that much range, Henry throwing himself at you when you faced Patrick.

The two of you went flying, the cut burning as Henry shoved you to the bank, the action knocking the air out of your lungs as your back met the uneven and sharp rocks. You struggled, throwing the tire iron up to block his jabs and slashes of the knife, the edge coming dangerously close to your eyes.

“Look at you now, Trashmouth!” Patrick hooted, running up to come beside Henry.

You writhed under Henry, finding an opening and, with a valiant cry, jerked the bottom of the tire iron to strike Henry’s temple. He gave a cry of pain and ripped himself off you, roaring as he clutched his now bleeding head. You kicked yourself up, just barely breaking from Patrick’s grasp as he hurled himself after you.

Henry was down for the count, but Patrick was more than happy to pursue you through the winding and twisting limbs of the underbrush. The path was caked with wet leaves, unsteady earth and littered with specks of blood from Richie and probably Bill, but you came out the other side and skidded across the Kissing Bridge, chest heaving, victorious despite the challenge of the terrain.

Patrick was right on your tail, always inches from catching you, his eyes lit up with a gleam that horrified you to the core. He was enjoying himself as he increased his speed while you sprinted to the running truck.

“TAKE OFF THE BREAK, TAKE OFF THE BREAK!” You screamed, hearing the chaotic laughter behind you.

The gang was in the back, all shouting after you to hurry, Bill and Richie leaning heavily on each other in the trunk of the car, looking like hell had come after them and spat them back out. Beverly was at the wheel, screaming in time with the others as you threw yourself into the open trunk bed, Mike shoveling you far inside as Beverly shot off like a bullet. You all lurched forward from the force, the bikes that had been stuffed in the back rattling beside each other, and you gave a cry when you felt Patrick’s hand just barely graze your boot, your head turning as you watched him slow to a trot, giving up in his chase.

“We’ll get you later, Tozier!” He called after you, bending to catch his breath, eyes boring into you as Beverly whipped the truck down the street and carried off far from the bridge.

The truck was driven far away, weaving behind Derry through back roads that even you were unaware of. Mike carefully climbed through the open back window, directing Beverly with a calm voice, the only one of you who had the sense to keep his emotions in check.

The wind whipped at your hair, the cool air welcomed to calm the heat in your veins, to tame the fire in your belly. You were going to fucking murder Bowers, if it was the last thing you did. Carefully, you shuffled past the bikes to Richie and Bill, taking care to raise Richie’s head to inspect the damage.

“What happened?” You asked, your question falling on Stan or Ben to answer.

You glanced over your shoulder, Stan looking distraught as he watched Bill roll his head, his left eye swelling shut and jaw reddening with bruises. Bill attempted to speak, his speech slurred.

“B-b-buh-bowers,” He finally got out, heaving a sigh. “Ben. Tell h-her.”

Ben shifted, his face dirty and flushed, but seeming mostly unharmed. “Bowers caught us at Kissing Bridge. He was pissed you had tried to order him around, so he started picking on Richie… And, well, you know Eddie,” the boy nodded at Eddie, whose head rested on Stan’s lap, his breathing relaxed. There was a knot forming on his forehead, but at the very least he seemed safe enough. “He got angry that Henry was messing with Richie and he mouthed off to him, which made Henry angry, which made Richie cuss him out and, well.”

Ben sighed. “They chased us to the canal, Patrick and Henry shoved Eddie down and he was out like a light. Richie tackled Henry, Bill went for Belch when he tried to kick Richie off Henry and Patrick got on Mike. Bev and I ran to Mike after Stan ran to Bill and Vic knocked me down. You showed up after i got up and Henry started wailing on Richie.”  
“Fuckin… Idiot.” Richie spat, breathing heavily as Beverly finally slowed the car, pulling the parking brake as she came up beside a pasture and climbing out, panic fresh on her features.

“You’re the idiot!” She yelled, a wetness in her eyes as she crawled into the truck bed, reaching for Eddie and cradling his face in her hands. “Eddie, Eds?”

The boy gave a sharp inhale, hazel eyes fluttering open as he flinched awake. “What-” He sat up, swaying only slightly as Mike took the wheel. “What the fuck happened, OH MY GOD, RICHIE!”

“Where do we go?” He asked, looking over his shoulder, worried gaze resting on Richie and Bill.

“R-r-ree-rich- FUCK,” Bill cursed, angirly stirring in his spot. “Richie’s!”

His eyes hardened, furious with either himself or his predicament, you weren't sure. Mike looked to you for an okay and you wearily crawled from the back to the inside of the cab, letting out a soft moan of pain as you overworked your wounded arm.

Eddie took your spot beside Richie, eyes pricking with tears as he practically hyperventilated. He was speaking a mile a minute and you didn't take the time to decipher it as Mike began to drive forward, heading down the road to make it back to town.

“Eds.” Richie croaked between heavy breaths, Eddie continuing on some kind of rant about broken noses. “Eds.”

Beverly gingerly looked over Bill’s face, Stan hovering at her side and looking forlorn as they bounced in the back from the dents and potholes of the roads. Gravel kicked underneath the truck, crunching loudly as Mike led everyone past farmlands.

“Eds.” Richie said firmly, reaching out and catching a panicky hand of Eddie’s, folding his fingers together with the smaller boys and arching in to a sore stretch. “Stop, i’m begging you.”

Finally, Eddie silenced himself. A loud sniffle could be heard as he shuffled closer to Richie, forcing your cousin to lean himself on him. “You’re a fucking idiot. Idiot.”

“Nice.” Richie mused with a broken laugh, coughing and groaning. “This is all your fault, [First Name]. Just sayin’. If I die, make sure they bury me in a coffin without nails so I can pass over to the promise land and let god know how much of an ass you are.”

“Considering you want ‘Highway To hell’ played after your hespied, you turd, I don’t think you’re making it to the otherside.” You snapped, sliding off your jacket and eyeing the nasty cut, courtesy of Henry Bowers. “I was just trying to help.”

Richie scoffed, but you decided against fighting further, it did you no favors. Maybe Richie was right. You had been too aggressive, way too damn fast. The Bowers Gang meant business, it appeared. Something told you that if Patrick had caught you at the bridge that you’d have been dead meat, no holds barred. Just threatening those boys had landed you in a heap of shit, and, like Richie had pointed out, you had barely been in town for two days.

Mike watched you from the corner of his eye, and you sighed heavily, closing the window to the back and scrunching up your face in distaste.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” You asked him, already gathering that he was the wisest of the group, the most grown up and least opinionated.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. “You Toziers are good at two things; talking smack and causing problems… But at least you were trying to do right by us.” He smiled a little, rubbing at this split lip. “Even if it did get us a little roughed up. It shows you care.”

“Richies beat bad, Bill’s going to be swollen up and colored purple.” You said regretfully. “Eddie was out for longer than five minutes, and you’ve got a busted lip. I did a swell job trying to do right by you guys, huh?”

“You’re hurt too.” Mike pointed out softly, turning down a rural road. “Bowers cut you up pretty bad.”

“I’m fine. I’m more worried about you guys.” You said honestly, peeking back at the others in the back, all of whom who were huddled together in a tight circle. The breeze ruffled curls and upset need styles, but at least all of them had tired smiles. They looked valiant, proud to have escaped with a few scrapes and their lives.

“Toziers.” Mike murmured, shaking his head and giving a defeated sigh. “You need to watch it around Bowers, I’m just warning you.”

“I can handle myself.” You defended lightly.

“I saw. But if Patrick had jumped in, I’m sure you wouldn’t currently be in this car.” He said, attempting to resonate with you. “You took that tire iron to Henry Bowers pretty hard core, sure, but he isn't the only member of the gang, [First Name].”

You clicked your tongue. “I’d take him on again if I could, Mike.”

“I know.” He agreed, eyes dancing with amusement.

You were quiet for a while, letting the scenery pass by before suddenly you sat up, blinking in surprise.

“WAIT? CAN YOU EVEN LEGALLY DRIVE?”

* * *

Underneath the blood that caked Richie’s face was a simple broken nose and torn lip, nothing too major despite what it had seemed earlier. You and Richie was miraculously able to convince your aunt that he had simply fallen off his bike and roughed himself up slamming into a pole. Your cousin had an endless supply of glasses, so it was an easy fix as far as the two of you were concerned, and Bill’s eye lessened in its swelling after he applied an ice pack and Eddie tended to his cuts. Mike said his lip was nothing to worry about and Ben put countless band aids on Beverly’s knees, the tenderness evident behind his sweet smile and Beverly’s warm gaze. Eddie’s bump had receded considerably and was barely there now, but he had kept ice on it for a while just to be safe.

It took the combined power of Stan, Bill, Mike and Beverly to hold you still so Eddie could patch up your arm. You thrashed around, having preferred to just rinse it off and tape the wound up in a classic Tozier fashion, but Kaspbrak nagged the shit out of you before he ordered the attack on you to be made.

Richie was too doped up on the pain medication that Eddie stole from his cabinets to bring to your house for his emergency aid, so the bespectacled nerd could only let out a few slurred “ _Suck the wound_ ”’s before he seemingly passed out on the couch in the Tozier home’s basement.

“Hold her still, come on.” Eddie snapped, a cotton ball of peroxide in between his careful fingers as he applied the antiseptic to your gash.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow-” You whined, wiggling around despite the combined weight that kept you seated in the office chair stolen from your uncles computer room.

“Is she going to need stitches?” Stan questioned, much to your added distress.

“No, she isn't. It's just a flesh wound.” Eddie assured everyone, Ben letting out a thankful sigh in place of yourself.

Richie gave a sleepy chuckle, rolling on the couch. “Flesh wound…” He was promptly ignored.

“Calm down, you’re alright.” Beverly shushed, smiling down at you. You flinched as Eddie patted your cut dry, pressing gauze against it before begining to wrap your arm tightly with bandages.

“Thanks mom.” You snarked, wincing at the pressure applied, but calming down nonetheless.

Eddie stepped back, sighing. “Done.”

All four teens released you, and you shot up, heading to the couch to sit with your cousin, licking your wounds per say.

The others mingled for a while before leaving, everyone thankfully not as roughed up as before and wearing smiles. You waved them all out the basement entrance before going back to Richie, slinging the battered (and drugged out) boy’s arm over your shoulder.

“Come on champ.” You encouraged, heading upstairs. Shutting the door to the basement behind you and maneuvering to the second story, pausing at the base of the staircase to bid your aunt and uncle good night.

"We're heading to bed. Love you guys."

They didn't bother to turn from the television, leftovers from the night before in their laps and eyes glued to the news.

“Assholes. They don’t even care...” Richie muttered lowly, but you shushed him softly, leading the boy one step at a time to the second story hall, where you dragged him to his bedroom.

Richie swayed as you reached to turn on his light, taking the boy to his bed and gently settling him a top the covers.

“[First Name]?” He slurred your name adorably, barely keeping onto his consciousness. You hummed in response, undoing his laces and setting his shoes on the floor beside his twin bed. He squirmed in the Star Wars covers, slipping his glasses off and dropping them on the nightstand.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Richie whispered hoarsely, scratching at the tape stuck to his nose from Eddie’s handiwork. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too Bucky Beaver.” You felt your heart melt and expression soften. He watched you with his big brown eyes, looking dead tired and bruised. He was still in his clothes from earlier and you sighed, knowing what you had to do. Walking to his dresser you grabbed a pair of pajama pants and a shirt from the drawers before returning to his side, shifting the dirtied jeans off his legs.

He let you do the deed, complaining only when you jerked the jeans too roughly off his ankles and drawing his pajama pants over bare legs. The change into his shirt was easier, and once that was over with and you had combed any mud that was left in his hair out, you straightened and threw his comforter over top his aching form.

“Love you, bud.” You said, stepped away from his bedside.

“Love you too.” He murmured, eyes fluttering in attempt to stay awake. “Thanks for beating up Bowers with a crowbar for me.”

“Tire iron.” You corrected with a chuckle, heading to the door. “You’re welcome, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do we get up at six again?”

“No, we get up at six forty-five. You get to sleep in.” You walked to the door, turning off the light. Lost in his delirium, and maybe from the light headedness of his pain killers, Richie gave a quiet cheer.

“Yay.”


	4. The Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with my Patrick/Reader nonsense. I took creative liberty of using Gretta Keene and Gretta Bowie as separate people, with Bowie being older and in the Reader’s grade, while Keene is The Losers Club’s age. This chapter time skips, ending up close to the week before halloween for plot reasons. Richie and the reader’s relationship is a key point of this series, and I’ll be building on it more and more as time goes on.  
>  ‘The Promise’ by When In Rome is this chapters title. You’ll notice that there are parallels in this chapter, and i fuckin’ SHAMELESSLY LIVE FOR THEM *finger guns*

You were awake the next morning hours before your alarm sang. You didn’t move, you didn't adjust, you just laid there. The cut on your arm was a dull pain, the worst of it behind you, but, it reminded you.

You needed to be careful. Be smart.

It wasn’t just you on the line anymore, you weren’t alone in Texas and picking fights with punks who got on your bad side. You were picking fights with boys who had Derry in the palm of their hands, and had tormented Richie for years before you arrived. Your actions dictated Richie’s future harassment, you realized with a trickle of fear. One wrong move, and Richie could end up with worse than a broken nose and a busted lip.

What if next time, that cut by his eye was ON his eye. What if Bowers blinded him because of your feisty nature? The thought itself worried you, and as the early morning sunlight filtered through your open curtains and you heard your uncle and aunt rouse for their work, you decided to take a back seat.

Avoid The Bowers Gang. Keep Richie and his friends safe. That was the goal. Your only goal besides getting into college and acing your SAT’s.

When the front door closed for a second time that morning with a hollow thud, you rose from your bed. Switching off your alarm, ready to get the day started, you pushed yourself out from under the covers and walked to your dresser.

Aided by the cool light that danced across the surfaces of your room and relaxed by the soft breeze that entered through your cracked window, you began to dress. A simple t-shirt, a pair of jeans and a strippy pair of socks made you feel a little more put together and so you headed down stairs, the clock reading 6:30 am.

The kitchen, arguably one of the largest rooms in the house, was neat and tidy in reflection of your Aunt’s more compulsive side. The floral curtains that hung above the kitchen sink where a window faced the backyard were parted, allotting you enough light to set to work on breakfast for you and the younger Tozier.

You dug some bisquick out the painted cabinets, jumping onto the countertop to reach the highest shelves for the mixing bowls and baking supplies. You tossed a carefully hidden bag of chocolate chips on the counter, figuring your Aunt Maggie had made them scarce because of Richie’s habit to eat chocolate chips right out the bag. He did similar things with packaged cookie dough, much like yourself.

With a grunt you hopped back to the linoleum floor, opening the bag of chocolate chips absently and tossing back a couple. You chewed the sweets, walking to the fridge and grabbing milk from inside. The door slammed shut, and you admired all that was hung on the beige metal surface of the machine.

Countless polaroids of Richie and his friends littered it, chunky fruit magnets and old wooden ones from his parents also held up report cards from semesters pass. Richie had always been an intelligent kid, always. The straight A’s written across his formal papers reminded you of that, as did a red ribbon from a science fair, where he had gotten second place. There were a few pictures Richie had drawn, going as far back as preschool judging by some of the sloppier work, but you could tell he had been working hard to improve his craft.

With a smile, you noticed a carefully taken polaroid from years past hanging in a corner. It had to have been from a sunday at the Synagogue, because the two of you were dressed to the nines. Richie was still a tiny little thing in the photo, and, to your surprise, so were you. You had on a polite and cute pink dress no doubt picked out especially for worship by your Aunt or mother, who had always insisted that you curl your hair properly and let them style it neatly and perfectly atop your head. Richie was dressed in a baby blue suit that was a little bit too big for him, with a pressed dress shirt underneath and a formal tie at his neck.

Despite the uncomfortable formal wear and the sunlight that was positively beaming down on the two of you as you stood in front of hedges by a building, the two of you were all smiles. You both squinted from the sunlight that tried to blind you, with your arm hooked around Richie’s shoulders and his hands thrown out in a pair of ridiculous finger guns.

You loved that photo, you decided, eyeing it with a grin now. Maybe you’d visit the local synagogue, it had been a long while since you practiced your parents faith, and even if you weren’t exactly a believer of god almighty, you still missed that sense of community that came from practising Judaism.

Turning back from the fridge, you set to making some chocolate chip pancakes; yours and Richie’s favorite breakfast.

You had made a nice stack by the time you heard a groggy voice from the kitchen doorway.

“Whats for breakfast?” Richie yawned, shuffling in with massive bedhead and with lopsided glasses, too tired to position them correctly. You didn't have time to respond before he flew to your side, drawn in by the sweet aroma of the pancakes. “Oh, no fucking way! Chocolate chip pancakes?!”

You grinned, flipping another done pancake onto the pile, nodding at the cabinets. “Get out syrup. How’re you feeling, Rich?”

Richie took to the cabinets, opening one and snatching a syrup bottle out and coming back with a shrug. “Sore. There’s a bruise on my back the size of canada but whatever.” He snagged the pile of pancakes, drizzling syrup over them so thickly that it pooled at the edges of the plate, threatening to spill over the side. “How’re you?”

You eyed him carefully, face falling when you saw the purple and black that blemished his face. He looked like Bower’s had used a bat to fuck him up, not his fists. Richie looked up from his food, mouth full of breakfast.

Upon noticing your worried expression, he swallowed and quickly added; “It's better than it looks. I swear.”

“Promise?” You echoed softly, wincing as he gingerly wiped stickiness from his busted lip.

“Promise.” He nodded, dragging the plate away from you and hopping atop the counter to eat. “How are you?” He repeated, sounding just as worried.

“I’m fine. Eddie is a fantastic medic.” You said with as much humor you could muster, pouring batter into the hot pan and listening to it sizzle and bubble. “Not excited to go to class. The Bower’s Gang is in my homeroom.”

Richie made a face. “Fan-Fucking-Tastic.”

“My thoughts exactly.” You flipped the pancake in the pan, looking wistful. “I sit in front of Hockstetter.”

“He’s such a creep.” Richie stabbed his food. “He hits on anything that had two legs, but I’ve heard from inside sources that he’ll fuck anything with four legs too.”

“Beep Beep Richie.” You groaned, shuddering. “Gross, quit while you’re ahead. We gotta be at school in thirty minutes, so eat and get ready, please.”

You gestured with your spatula to his pajamas, sighing and returning back to your cooking.

Stuffing the last of his pancakes in his mouth, which had originally been four, Richie dropped to the floor and dumped his dish in the sink, rinsing it out and tossing it in the dishwasher. “Thanks for breakfast, [First Name]. Can we grab Eddie again today?”

“Yeah.” You turned your back to him, frying up the last of the batter. “Call him though, I don't want to be late to class and we’re going to be cutting it close.”

Richie hummed in response, his foot falls growing distant before you heard him stomp up the stairs.

 

Pulling up to school, you let Richie and Eddie out before you. The boys had acted as if yesterday hadn’t happened, chatting playfully in the truck while you drove in silence, barely responding to their casual conversation.

You were itching for a smoke by the time you arrived to Derry High, and you waved the boys off when they prompted you to follow. “I’ll see you guys at lunch.”

The promise of your arrival for lunch was enough to chase them away, your cousin wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders as they walked to the school, still discussing some nonsense you hadn’t bothered to pay attention too. Maybe Dungeons and Dragons.

You had pulled up in the back of the parking lot, where your truck was most shaded by the treeline and therefore, you could smoke in peace without worrying about being caught. You dug in your backpack, tossing it aside when you found your packet of cigarettes and pulling one out. It was bent and crumpled, but it still calmed your nerves when you lit it and took a long and well deserved drag.

You rolled down your window, the chilly morning wind tossing cigarette smoke out your cab while you leaned against your seat and closed your eyes, figuring you had a good ten minutes before class started.

Your peace was rudely interrupted when a thundering rumble came from your left and you heard the crunch of fallen leaves being driven over as a car slowed and stopped, pulling up right beside you.

“Oh god fucking dammit.” you cursed quietly, shoving your cigarette between your lips and cracking open an eye, only to find yourself meeting the hostile gaze of Henry Bowers.

You were quick to attempt to roll up the window, but Bowers was faster, jumping out the Trans-Am and grabbing the glass while shoving it down- effectively stopping your actions. Your door groaned as you made an effort to keep rolling it up, but Henry flexed his arm, pushing it down harder, your aged vehicle at the mercy of the mullet haired boy.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment before you finally let smoke escape your lips and pressed the lock of your door, glaring down at Henry.

“What, Bowers?”

Distracted, like a god damn fool, you hadn’t noticed Patrick rounding the back of your truck until, to your horror, you heard your passenger door open.

You flew into action too late, twisting in your seat and attempting to shove the lanky boy from your truck as he climbed inside with a feral grin.

“Get the fuck outta my car, Hockstetter!” You shouted, hitting and shoving the teen to no avail. He overpowered you all too easily, throwing you back against your seats and crawling over you. He smelt like cloves and patchuli, the lingering musk of cigarette smoke and maybe weed catching you as he pressed his chest to yours, reaching a long arm and unlocking the driver side door.

Your eyes widened when it was jerked open and Henry’s face loomed above beside Patricks, both boys staring down at you with haunting uncertainty.

“Listen here, cunt.” Henry sneered, grinding his teeth down at you. There was a purple blossom of a bruise on his temple, with a deep gash scabbing over, undoubtedly your handiwork from the day before. “You got us good yesterday, and that's not going to end well for you.”

He climbed into the cab, pushing you into a sitting position, placing you between himself and Patrick. A leather jacket clad arm was thrown over your shoulders, Patrick taking the cigarette from between your lips and taking a hit.

“Nice heap of shit car, Tozier.” Henry commented, surveying the inside of the truck with disdain.

“At least I have a car.” You shot, Patrick chuckling at your side. “So what's the deal. You guys going to rough me up, teach me a lesson?”

You crossed your arms, watching Patrick out the corner of your eyes but keeping your attention settled on Henry for the time being.

The sandy blond shot a hand out, taking your chin in a vice like grip and dragging you closer. A flash of something silver and you felt ice at your throat. You didnt need to see the object to know without a doubt that he was pressing a blade against your skin. You inhaled sharply and Henry smirked darkly, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve got bigger shit to deal with than some punk ass new kid, but lemme give you some advice, Trashmouth.” He hummed, keening the knife across your flesh, causing goosebumps. “Next time you wanna be the hero, dont be.”

He led the knife down to the neck of your shirt, toying with the hemline. “Or you’ll get something worse than a threat, like an early grave.”

His thumb rubbed against the softness of your bottom lip before he released you, where you flinched back and met the shoulder of Patrick.

You shot him a look of disgust. “How poetic, Bowers. Really, you’re wooing me now.”

“Can it, Trashmouth.” He hissed, flipping his blade dormant and stuffing it in his pocket. “You make a move like you did yesterday again, and we’ll end you.”

“If you touch Richie Tozier or his friends, I’ll kick your ass, again.” You snarled, hands clenched into fists. “And next time, I’ll hope Hockstetter doesn't have to try and catch me for you.”

Long fingers found your neck, wrapping there loosely as a ringed thumb stroked your pulse. You froze then, having forgotten about Patrick all over again. Hot breath played against your ear, cigarette smoke curling around your cheek as he spoke lowly.

“Maybe respect the man letting you off with a warning, Princess.” He advised, and to your utter disgust, you felt his lips caress the side of your neck. “I wanted to put you in that grave he’s talkin’ about.”

Henry eyed Patrick wearily, his tough guy act faltering slightly. “Lets go, Pat. She gets the message.”

He slid out the cab, and after a moment, Patrick released his hold of you and followed, stealing your cigarette and ego in one fell swoop.

You watched as they left, Belch and Vic talking quietly with Henry while Patrick walked in silence, shooting glances over his shoulder at you. You sat in your truck even as the first bell rang, signaling class had started, only leaving your car when you realized second period had started.

 

* * *

 

Your week went by slowly after that, crawling to Friday at a snail's pace. The Bowers Gang barely threw you a glance as they stalked through the halls and hovered behind you in homeroom. Computer Science had been a dud, the entire class full unfortunately, leaving you to scramble for an extracurricular in a blind panic. You faced Mrs. Donahue with your options, irritated that the most exciting class had been taken. Still, after looking over the options left open, you found one that sounded promising enough.

“Auto shop?” Mrs. Donahue rose a thin brow at your choice. “A lady shouldn’t dirty herself with motor oil and grease.”

You narrowed your eyes, much to her shock. “I like cars.” You said simply, but the malice you meant was there.

She huffed, but typed something up on a computer of hers, sliding you a form. “Sign this, you’re eighteen, right?”

“Yeah.” You took the form, signing it without question and handing it back. A few more minutes of fiddling with her keyboard and she looked over the rims of her glasses. “You can go to class now. Building C, room 103.”

You waved dismissively, worn out with all that had happened that week to spare the rude woman a polite farewell. You needed to get to class anyhow, you were late because of your last minute decisions.

You hurried from the main building, crossing sidewalks and rushing through a small covered passing hall to a medium sized brick and sheet metal building that sat across the football fields. It had few rows of rolling doors, all of which that were pulled up, the well lit inside showcasing a few frames of some older cars. Rock music, the good shit that you were ready to spend time listening to for the school year, reached your ears as you approached.

You ducked inside one of the folded doors, taking in the familiar scents of spilled oil, musky heat and hardwork. There were a few boys fiddling around, all of which starred as you passed by, looking like they were seniors as well. They were dressed in overalls or varying degrees of work uniforms. Your paint splattered jeans, more for aesthetic than anything, fit in well. Dirty faces turned when you tiptoed around working bodies, attempting to find someone who looked like they could be a teacher.

“Lost, Princess?” Came a familiar drawl once you had passed a sleek looking muscle car, the voice coming from underneath is body. “I know those shoes anywhere, Tozier.”

You tensed, head tilting to face the ceiling as you prayed that the voice didn’t belong to the boy you thought it did. After a swift roll of a mechanics creeper, you dropped your eyes, clicking your tongue in irritation when you found yourself staring into hues of grey-green.

“Hockstetter.”

“That’s my name, Tozier.” He mused, cheeks smeared with grime as he rolled a rag between sticky and dark fingers. “Looking for me?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Shawl, actually.” Your eyes flickered to the other cars that dotted the large garage, only four more in total. “The rest of you here?”

No clarification was needed as the raven haired boy answered.

“Everyone but Vic. He takes drama for the pussy.” Patrick pushed himself up, his height towering over you. “Mr. Shawl is in his office. Why’d you need him?”

“Why do you think, dumbass? I’m joining shop.” You turned from him, searching the floor for an area that might be called an office. In the very back you saw a squared off set of walls, a door with ‘Shawl’ printed over the surface. “If you’ll excuse me.”

You caught Patricks indignant scoff, clearly amused by the idea of you joining his class.

You swaggered away, shouldering your backpack firmly in your tight grip as you avoided others. Henry’s sun kissed face popped out from the inside of a truck, where his blue eyes scorched you as you walked. Belch was bent over the front of the vehicle, the hood up as he tinkered around.

You grimaced, knowing that changing your classes would just be a heap of shit if you went back to Mrs. Donahue, and god dammit, if you weren’t such an idiot, maybe you would have thought of the possibility of The Bower’s Gang being part of an auto class.

But alas. You knocked on the office door and it was opened promptly, where a head full of stark white hair appeared along with a hunched and tired looking old man.

He pushed up his glasses with gnarled fingers, the little scars and burns evident from years of work behind his calluses.

“Can I help you, kiddo?” He asked, genuinely sounding kind and attempting to be helpful. Bloodshot and rounded eyes of green watched as you held out your transcript and your signed forms.

“I’m joining shop, sir. I’m [First Name] Tozier, It’s nice to meet you.” You greeted with an even tone, nervousness seeping into your words as you felt all eyes on you.

Mr. Shawl took your papers curiously, scanning everything before folding them tightly and gracing you with a smile. “Do you know the basics?”

Relief washed over you, the dread that had worked its way into you from Patrick’s snarky laugh and the confused stares that had been thrown at you were carried away instantly. “Yes sir. My dad and I used to work on cars, so I’m pretty good at what I can do- And I can obviously learned what I don’t know.” You said eagerly, stepping aside as the old man made to pass you.

“Well, the shop is always in need of hard workers.” Mr. Shawl led you back to the garage floor, tucking your papers in his overall pockets and clearing his throat. “Boys! We got a new one!”   
Like a pack of wild dogs, the boys descended, shooting you unimpressed glances as they arrived in pairs. Someone had turned down the rock music, which led to an awkward silence between you all. There were only nine in total, you realized with a frown, which meant this period was lacking full partners. You supposed that explained why Patrick had been working by himself on his car while Belch and Henry had been fixing a truck together.

“This is Miss Tozier.” He gestured to you, and he gestured to the boys in his class, naming each one. “This is Dylan, Andrew, Cole, Henry, Reggie,” You were surprised to hear someone refer to Belch with such a normal sounding name. “Patrick, Casey, Kent and Donnie.”

They all gave a round of muted greeting, side from Henry and Patrick, who watched you with a hawk like stare. The nicest sounding of the bunch, Donnie, actually waved a blackened hand and smiled.

“Not sure if you guessed, But Donnie’s the nicest.” Mr. Shawl winked, nudging you. For a moment you didn't understand the indication, but when Donnie’s cheeks flushed you understood, laughing awkwardly.

“Kay then…” You looked to the concrete floor, embarrassed. 

“Well, Kids. Get back to work.” Mr. Shawl put a hand on your back, and ushered you towards one of his students. “Meet your partner, Miss Tozier.”

Patrick was either holding back some serious nefarious laughter, or he was about to shit himself out of surprise, because the boy had to clamp his lips together to keep from making a reaction. You, completely mortified, wished Mr. Shawl had just shot you instead, because watching Patrick Hockstetter eye you as cruelly as he was made your face burn in shame.

“Play nice, Patrick.” Mr. Shawl patted your shoulder and shuffled away back to his office. “Someone turn the music back up!”

The rest of the boys stepped away, getting back to work without a care. Even Henry and Belch wandered off, though you felt their eyes on you while you stood with Patrick.

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening.” You muttered. Convinced that if there was a god, that he was laughing at you.

“It’s like Christmas morning for me, sweetheart.” Patrick smirked, turning from you and heading off to his -your- project car.

After a moment of deliberation, you heaved a sigh and followed after him, clenching your hands into fists as he dropped back down onto the creeper.

“First off,” Patrick rolled his neck, cracking his neck with a delicious popping noise that made you shudder. “This is my car.”

You made a face, as if you were about to argue, and he continued. “I salvaged this trash from the junkyard and I’m gonna buy it out from the school, so she’s mine, Tozier. Do you know what kind of car she is?”

You glanced over the vehicle, recognizing some parts of it and the brand, though you were unsure about the year even with your excellent knowledge of cars. It needed a fresh coat of paint and had a bit of rusting on the mirrors, but it was in decent shape, Patrick had done a fantastic job at restoring it. “A Chevy Monte Carlo, either an ‘82 or an ‘83.”

Patrick considered you for a moment, certainly impressed. “Its an ‘83. Good eye, Princess.”

“Thanks. I like muscle cars…Like the Trans-Am you dicks drive around in.” You crossed your arms, pursing your lips. “Belch upkeeps it nicely.”

“He would kill for Amy.” Patrick scooted his creeper, laying down and watching you. “Hand me tools. If you don't fuck around, maybe I’ll let you work on her before the semester is up.”

“Dick.”

“Bitch.” He snapped back, though there was no emotion behind the word, it as as if he was just attempting to one up you over actually insult you. He kicked himself under the body of his car, humming along to the song that played over the radio from the center of the garage.

“1/4th ratchet wrench.” He ordered, a dirty hand reaching out. You turned to his tool box, finding the wrench easily and placing it in his palm. He took it, the sounds of his tinkering boring you. You dragged a little step ladder to the car’s side, dropping down on it and handing the boy his tools when you asked, growing more and more apathetic as time went on.

“So more than one of you can actually drive?” You asked casually, switching tools with him again.

“Just me and Belch. Vic skates and Henry can’t pass his test.”

You felt humored by that, smirking in Henry’s direction. “So, since we all have homeroom and shop together, does that mean we’re making peace?”

“You wish, Princess.” Patrick laughed hollowly, pushing himself out from under the car and tossing his last tool with a frown. “Just because you’re my shop partner doesn't mean I wont go after you if you step outta line.”

You eyed him carefully as he laid there, covered in grease and oil, his bright eyes watching you just as attentively. 

“Why my cousin?” You asked, closing the tool box with the tip of your boot. “He’s a dork, sure, but he doesn't cause trouble.”

“Because Henry wants to wail on him.” Patrick shrugged, dragging a filthy hand across his wife beater, his jacket and throw over shirt laid across the hood of the project car. “And if you’re smart you’ll stop butting in.”

“You already know I wont, Hockstetter.” Your voice was stern as he rised, pushing a lock of his hair behind an ear.

“Then be ready for a fight, Tozier.” Patrick warned, lips quirking into a smirk. “Because last time just wasn’t enough action for me.”

 

* * *

 

Things were quiet for a while. Despite Henry’s claim to keep harassing Richie and his friends, you found that he and the rest of the Bowers Gang seemed to avoid them. You had turned in an essay on  _ The Catcher In The Rye _ and received it back with an even ninety-eight grade and an A proudly stamped on the pages. Classes were alright, though a girl named Gretta Bowie had hawked on you a few times in History and P.E. but it wasn't anything you couldn't handle.

She was a pretty girl, you reasoned, with long blond hair and baby blue eyes. If it wasn't for the devil horns that threatened to poke out from underneath her waves of gold, you’d have thought she was a normal girl. A little nasty, certainly rude, and cruder than you on trivial matters like locker room gossip, she did not make your list of people in Derry that you liked.

She wasn’t to be confused with Gretta Keene, another blond with greener eyes than blue, who had apparently given Beverly hell back in junior high. She was the same age as Richie and his friends, a freshman and dominating their grade’s popularity with an iron fist.

Gretta Bowie and Gretta Keene, two girls certainly cut from the same cloth, were also friends. More so school sisters, taking great joy in bullying kids in their respective grade and probably meeting up after class at the malt shop and gloating about their latest conquests while sipping away on strawberry shakes.

Which is why you didn’t feel any remorse at shooting Gretta Bowie a nasty glare when she tripped you during your P.E. track warm up.

“Oops.” She tossed the word over her shoulder, long locks pulled high in a scrunchy. “Sorry, Trashmouth.”

You pushed up off the ground, knees scraped up and burning. Wordlessly, you set back to running along the track, ignoring the remorseful gazes that rested on you from fellow girls in your class. It was weird being in a gendered period, you thought, brushing past girls who seemed out of breath despite the easy task given to them. Then again, running wasn’t for everyone, and that was fine.

What wasn’t fine, however, was being stuck with nothing but angry small town girls for an entire hour every single day. They used the class as an excuse to get their anger out it seemed, and you were at the mercy of their casual malice. The added fact that your gym teacher still allowed dodgeball was shit too, because while you were good at running in a circle, you were shit at catching a ball. Especially if that ball was aimed at your face.

The gym was divided by a taped line during your P.E. period. Girls on one side, boys on the other. Dodgeball was gendered too, which you guess you were thankful for, because The Bowers Gang (of fucking course) shared your P.E. period as well. Thanks to separate classes, however, you were left alone because there was barely any chance for one of them to run up and antagonize you.

But oh boy, did Gretta Bowie fill their place.

You sprinted past her, nostrils flared. It was so annoying that problems in ‘girl world’ had to be handled sneakily, silently. You were always more at ease with ‘boy world’ where it was acceptable to fight it out with, say, a tire iron and a knife.

“Work it, Princess!” You heard a voice call, and your eyes fell on Patrick Hockstetter as he and the rest of the boy’s gym class filed out their side of the gym to the track field for their warm ups as well.

You were coming up fast on their group, and you rolled your eyes, hair flying behind you as you continued at your face pace. Henry and Belch collected themselves beside Patrick, but Vic wandered far behind, eyes on the other boys in their class.

The boys fell in a neat line, their gym teacher shouting stretching positions at them. It was with a smile that you noticed Richie and Bill next to each other deep in the crowd, bending as they were ordered but offering you silent waves in hello. You slowed, waving at them too.

Heavy footfalls and the crunch of gravel alerted you to your contender, and in a blaze of glory, Gretta Bowie passed you. She eyed you with a smirk, diamond studs twinkling in time with her hues of baby blue.

“Catch up, Trashmouth.” She taunted, her eyes leaving you and finding Patrick as she passed their group. You noticed Patrick’s eyes find her too, his lips spreading into a knowing smile.

The race was on as you shot off like a bullet, catching Bowie and easily doubling a distance from her with a snarky little cackle. “Catch up, Bowie!”

You slowed to a trot, bouncing in place as you reached the end of your designated three laps. Your coach eyed you carefully as wiped sweat from your brow and stepped off the path to sit on the bleachers provided. Catching your breath and slowing your breathing, you squinted as he approached.

“Sir?”

“Tozier, did you do track down in Texas?” He stood at the end of the bleachers as Gretta came to a slow stop, her eyes burning into you.

“Yeah, kinda… I’m not interested in it anymore really.” You offered easily, watching as the boys were ordered onto the track.

“Shame. We’re down a runner for our cross country team. We also do pole vaulting, if that’s more your style.”

“I’m sure it is.” Gretta said under her breath slyly, climbing the bleachers with a snort of a laugh. You watched her with hard eyes, biting your lip in attempt to not smack talk her back.

“I’m good, thanks Coach.”

Coach Feldman either pretended to hear her or his hearing was shot after years of visiting football games and he gave a heavy sigh.

“Let me know if you change your mind, Tozier. You’ve got the stuff for it, and schools love and athlete.” He walked back to the trackside, more than half your class barely finishing their first lap. It seemed the warm up was going to easily take half the class and you sighed, watching the students run.

Bill was obviously more athletically gifted than Richie, who looked like he was about ready to die half way through his first lap. You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. He wasn’t pacing himself, just bolting forward once he got a wind of energy and wasting it in an effort to get his laps done faster. Bill was talking to him, probably warning him not to give his running too much of his energy at once, but he was being ignored as Richie waved him off.   
You stepped down off the bleachers, waiting with your arms crossed as they rounded the track, Richie panting heavily and Bill a little winded, but fair.

Coach Feldman didn’t bat an eye as you joined alongside your cousin and his friend, picking a slow and easy pace that the boys jogged along to steadily.

“You can’t just sprint willy nilly, dumbass.” You chidded lovingly, receiving a glare from Richie.

“S-see?” Bill said with barely a stutter, looking smug. “She agrees.”

“So where is the rest of The Losers Club?” You passed Richie and Bill, letting them trail behind you.

“Ben and Bev are in History with Mike, Stan is in english. Eddie’s checked out with his mom for a doctor's visit, but he’ll be back before school ends.” Bill answered smoothly.

“So we’re left alone for P.E.” Richie practically groaned. “And Henry Fuckin’ Bowers is all pissy today for some reason and he-”

You looked behind you as Richie cut off, noting how Bill’s hand dropped back to his side in a flash. They both shared a guilty look, mouths clamped shut.

“Oh no. The fire’s been lit. What happened?” You flipped, jogging backwards with ease and eyeing the mullet haired boy far behind them who chose to trot beside Vic and Belch. Patrick was behind them, walking at a leisurely pace as if he was taking a stroll.

“Nothing. Just locker room shit.” Richie muttered, but he saw the narrowing of your eyes. “Look, I swear, if you break into the boys locker room with a tire iron, you’ll never get a boyfriend at this school so cool your jets, hot stuff.”

Henry’s eyes found yours, and they locked. You both kept your pace, but the tension in the air was clear.

“What’d he do, Bill?” You asked lowly, knowing Richie wasn’t going to fess up.

“Nope. Nuh uh.” Bill shook his head vigorously, and ran ahead of you Tozier’s. “Not g-getting between this!”

“Tell me what he did, Richie.” You returned to jogging normally, watching Richie’s expression as he weighed his options.

“He shoved me. I mean, it's not too bad, but with my bruises, it hurt like a bitch. I’m fine, this is the first time in a while he’s fucked with me. Please don’t start shit again.”

“I won't.”

You would.

“Promise?” Richie prompted, sounded weary.

“Promise.” You lied.


	5. Don't Stop Me Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song is "Don't Stop Me now" by Queen, and as always, I encourage you to listen to the song. This is mostly exposition, BUT ITS IMPORTANT, I PROMISE!

Patrick couldn't get the taste of bubblegum out of his mouth, the sweetness lingering even as he propped up the hood of his project car and tossed a wrench to the Tozier girl. She seemed surprised to have been granted access to the vehicle and given a chance to actually do some work, setting to her tinkering in seconds. He watched her from behind, easily placing himself to loom over her and catch every single movement and action she performed on the Monte Carlo.

“You know what you’re doing.” He said slyly, though he was humbled by the realization. He hadn’t expected her to need as little help as she did.

She scoffed, shuffling from his side and grabbing other tools from the open toolbox propped  on a stool beside the car. “You sound surprised. Did you think I joined to meet boys or something?”

No. He didn't, and that amazed him more so than her mechanic abilities. Patrick wasn’t exactly one for putting much faith into women, after all, every woman in his life seemed to live by the same rules.

Look conventionally pretty. Keep the house nice and orderly. Devote their lives to their husbands and children.

Obviously the high school girls he had entertained skewed slightly elsewhere, mostly craving the attention of rebellious boys to make their daddy finally pay attention to them or something of the like, but he could indefinitely say most of the female he had encountered could fit into one broad term: Submissive.

But the Tozier girl couldn't be filed under that term, now could she?

He smirked broadly, a vivid memory from the canalside reminding him that no, [First Name] could not be considered ‘Submissive’. He could almost hear it then, the hollow sound of her tire iron striking Henry across the temple, how she expelled raw and untempered rage when she brought her weapon in an arch above her head, waving it like a sword with every intent to maim his friend.

“Nah,” He said finally, leaning dirty palms on the rim of the hood, his bright eyes focused on her work. “You don't seem the type.”

She snorted a laugh, rolling her eyes and digging into the crap wires arranged beside the engine. “Careful, Hockstetter. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was meant as one, Princess. I’ll go find the spark plugs I ordered, you can switch them out.” Patrick pushed off the vehicle, catching the Tozier girl’s minuscule smile as she started to undo the wires with careful hands. She waved him off as he walked away, the boyish laughter of his classmates and the nonsense rock music they sang along to a buzz in his ears. He smacked his lips, still tasting that hint of bubblegum, and wondered what it would taste like to have sucked face with the Trashmouth instead of Gretta Bowie.

* * *

You picked up a vhs tape, intrigued by the cover, and flipped it over to read the back. Running around behind you, like a pack of cracked up monkeys, were Richie and the rest of The Losers Club. The week leading up to October 30th, the day before Halloween, had been long indeed.

 

Richie had slammed the plans down for you a week before, mouth stuffed full of jolly ranchers he stole from your Aunts Halloween stash- meant solely for the trick or treaters, but of course snatched up by your sugar addicted cousin within the week they were bought.

“No trick or treating?” You pushed your homework aside as Richie leaned heavily against your work desk, taking his carefully scribbled out plans for the evening of halloween 1991.

“Cant. No one will give us candy anymore, even if we do have rock solid costumes.” He sucked on the sweets in his mouth, pointing sticky fingers at the dashes meant to signify planned out steps for his night. “So we’re all gonna have a monster movie marathon at the house and then we’re going to go out and TP the Bowers’ house once he and his shit licker dad pass out.”

“Rich, no.” You looked over the plans, noting Richie had underlined the importance of using you to rent rated R films. “I’ll take you and the others to the video store for movies, but I’m not going to be your personal valet Halloween night- especially if you’re planning on fucking with Bowers, which, by the way, is obviously my territory, not yours.”

Richie squinted down at you while you read over his list of chosen Halloween activities, frowning. “I thought you were going to leave Bowers alone?”

“I am.” You said innocently enough, taking the pencil you were using to do homework with and scribbling a date at the top of Richie’s paper. “I’ll take you to get movies the 30th. All the good ones will be gone by halloween, cool?”

Richie attempted a groan, but took his plans back and folded it up in his hands. “So what movie do you wanna rent?”

You moved your homework back into place, casually glossing over your work. “I’m not going to hang out. I’m going to do something halloween night, which means that if your parents head out, you gotta be the one to hand out candy.”

Your cousin gave a dramatic gasp, kind of choking on his candy but recovering quickly enough to clutch his chest for the sake of theatrics. “Your first Halloween back and you’re ditching me?”

“Rich. You’ll have six other friends to dittle fuck around with, I’ll rent you a bunch of scary movies and buy you some snacks. Your mom can get you guys pizza or something, you really don't need me crashing your party.” You evade his gaze, refusing to feel guilty on the matter.

“So then what are you gonna do? Huh?” Richie narrowed his eyes, ready to snoop. “Got a big date? Or are you too lame to get one?”

“No.” You instantly defended, growing irritated with him.

Over the semi-peace that had befallen you and the Bowers Gang, brought on either by intimidation of both parties or all of you seeing the harassment as too much work given how hard both sides would fight, you had begun to listen in on all the ‘hot’ Derry High gossip. Mostly it was a lot of confusing mismatched information that didn't seem feasible, there was a lot of hooking up going around, people liking other people but being too shy to ask each other out, and some students had brought alcohol to school. Nothing impressive. Lots of inner popular circle gossip was the same, all about binge drinking and sneaking a dime of weed into school to smoke in lockers rooms.

The biggest news, arguably the most influential among the seniors and juniors of Derry High, was the huge barn party Gretta Bowie was throwing Halloween night. Her dad owned some land outside the Derry town limits, and there was an old (but stable, you had heard) barn outside some fields there that had been host to some truly legendary parties.

The party was open invite, costumes required at the door, and was a mostly bring-your-own-beer kinda shindig, but it had been the only buzz going around school since you arrived. You heard about it, in truth, from Victor Criss.

Well, sort of.

You had been sneaking in a well deserved cigarette by the shop building after finishing lunch, when you heard him discussing the details with the rest of his friends. You were completely in their sights, while they stood huddled by the the fields but still within earshot of you. Who were they to care what you heard, you assumed they thought.

But you heard... A lot.

Gretta Bowie was apparently an on-again off-again fling for Patrick. Of course this was all decoded after several eavesdropping sessions, but the obvious eye fucking both parties made at each other and the fact Patrick reeked like bubblegum after classes and showed up with even messier hair than normal some days was a pretty big indicator nonetheless. The relationship was lots of heavy petting, some impromptu stripping in the girls locker room, hickeys given behind closed doors, but never exactly public. It as the kind of relationship Gretta Bowie would desperately hide from her friends. What would they think if she showed up with Patrick Hockstetter on her arm? Nothing good, that was for damn sure. The boy was ten pounds of psycho in a five pound bag, but, admittedly, you saw a little of what Gretta must have seen.

He was attractive, sure. Striking grey-green eyes, tall and lean with a clean cut jawline and cheekbones that could make any woman weep in envy. The whole edgy “bad boy” vibe he had going on drew hopeless romantics in, a heavy amount of the girls in your own grade could admit to fantasizing about Patrick Hockstetter being their dark knight- complete with a crown of black roses set atop his dark hair and with some grungy poetry spouting out his lips. You laughed to think that that was what they saw.

No, you knew there was something… _Wrong_ with Patrick. He was hot, god yes, but underneath that smoldering gaze of his was a different sort of human. Different in all the bad ways. He oozed predatory flare, and he watched the masses as if they were going to be his next victims. Patrick always seemed so blasé, but it was as if he was faking his other reactions. You wouldn't be surprised if you stumbled in on him practicing empathic looks in the mirror, trying to get a smile just right because he couldn't actually pull one off on the fly. He was an actor, all in his own little world, and sometimes that scared you.

But that didn't scare Gretta Bowie apparently. No sir. She had invited Patrick, and by proxy the rest of the Bowers Gang, to her party. You had still been thinking on how to get Henry back for pushing Richie around again. It seemed like a small thing, but it was still crossing a line you had set in place for the bully. You didn't want to have a full blown fight with the guy, just spook him a little. Heck, flicking him in the nose and telling him to fuck off would have almost sufficed, but you, a Tozier, always had to go for the dramatics.

If he was going to the party, or at least from the here and there mentions of grabbing some beer to bring you assumed he was, then so would you. Maybe if you just got him to scream, if you scared him with a harmless prank, then you could call it even.

So with that little plan in mind, you had decided to blow Richie and his friends off for Halloween. They didn't need you around anyhow, they were capable of causing mayhem without you.

 

“I’m going to Gretta Bowie’s party.” You admitted, quickly following up your words with a frown. “Without a date. Because I’m lame.”

“Not lame,” Richie chastised your words (which were his words in the first place), stuffing his paper in a back pocket. “Just a little too intimidating. Have you heard of smiling? Maybe cracking jokes? Oh, or, hanging out with the other seniors instead of dorking around with me and my friends?”

“Rich, you literally just asked me why I wasn’t hanging out with you or your friends this halloween, I believe you called it ‘bailing’ on you.”

“Smart ass.” He muttered, surprising you with a quick kiss to the top of your head and spinning around to leave. “I’m going to Eddie’s, tell mom I’ll be home before curfew, if she even asks.”

You grunted in response, the door closing behind the tall boy as he left.

 

Your week passed quickly, and after raiding your closet and searching through thrift stores, you compiled a decent ensemble for the halloween party, which was why you had time to drive Richie and his pals around town to grab supplies for the next day.

So there you were, sifting through countless VHS tapes and barely sparring Richie a glance as he came up with tape after tape. Eddie trailed behind him as always, talking a mile a minute over the impossibility of zombies, which Richie of course argued back.

You felt relieved when Bill found you, a tape in hand as Stan came to his side with a smile.

“You guys ready to go? Where’s Mike? Isn't he in charge of Bev and Ben?” You peeked above the shelves, looking for Mike. You spotted him by the romcoms with Ben, Beverly donning a witch hat and bopping her head to the cheesy tune of ‘Monster Mash’ playing over head through crackly speakers.

“Mike and B-ben are grabbing a romantic comedy to end on.” Bill explained with barely a stutter, and beside him, Stan seemed to notice the effort as well with a brightness in his eyes.

Richie groaned from behind you. “You’re all such fucking babies, oh my god.”

“Hey,” Stan snapped. “Not everyone can see an endless reel of blood and guts and be the same afterwards, Richie. We need filler, or Ben will get antsy. Just because you and Beverly can do it doesnt mean the rest of us can.”

“But Stan.” Richie edged closer to him, voice growing ragged and deep as he imitated a demonic voice. “Its Halloween, its what the demons need, your fear. Mwuhahahaha-”

He was promptly smacked by Eddie, who gave an annoyed huff. “A romcom sounds perfect. Don't be an ass.”

You chucked your chosen tape at Richie, who barely caught it to place on the growing pile in his arms. “That one is mine, if you watch it, make sure you rewind it so i don't have to.”

Richie’s nose scrunched up at the cover. “ _The Lost Boys_? Gay.”

“Can it, Trashmouth.” You knocked your shoe against his heel lightly, walking past him and out the aisle to the romcoms. The others followed, Eddie graciously taking some of the tapes so Richie didn't have so many to keep.

Mike saw the group approached and raised two tapes. “We’re stuck between _Sixteen Candles_ and _The Princess Bride_.”

“What does Molly Ringwald think?” Your cousin called from behind you, no doubt smirking.

Beverly shrugged. “ _The Princess Bride_?”

“Agreed.” Stan said, taking the tape as everyone else nodded along. “Did we get everything?”

You mentally counted up the tapes. “You have six all together, seven if you count mine. Is that going to be enough? Remember, you have school the next day too.”

“Yeah, we got it. Thanks mom.” Richie rounded you, the group following him to the front counter.

The clerk eyed Richie with a certain gleam of disdain that made you itch, but took the stack of tapes that he and the others dropped on the counter.

“Any of you actually eighteen?” He sighed, eyes flickering to you as you took out your wallet. You handed over your ID, taking your debit card out as you did so. He eyed the ID card, checking to see if it was fake no doubt. He let out a small grunt, handing your card back. “Fine. Name?”

Beside you, Beverly rolled her eyes as you continued your transaction. “[First Name] Tozier. My account is under my dad’s old one, Jeremiah Tozier.”

At the mention of your fathers name, the older man fixed on you with a considerate stare before it disappeared, and he sifted through information on his wheezing computer. He found the account, scanning the tapes through and then looking back to you.

“So, for _Childs Play_ , _Pet Sematary_ , _Poltergeist_ , _The Lost Boys_ , _The Princess Bride_ , _Nightmare on Elm Street_ , and _Hellraiser_ , it will be eighteen dollars for a three day rental.” The clerk said tartly, taking your debit card that was offered and running it through the scanning machine.

You left afterwards, Ben holding the door for everyone as you all filed out and walked across the darkening parking lot to your truck.

There was bickering from behind you, and you prepared yourself for the newest obsession of the group. Your truck’s seating arrangement.

“Dibs on shotgun!” Beverly launched into action, sprinting with a grin to your rusted up truck as Richie and Eddie raced after her.

“No fair! I called shotgun times infinity yesterday!” Richie hollered after her, his hawaiian shirt fluttering in the chilly Derry breeze.

“I call the middle!” Eddie followed up behind Richie closely as the trio all smacked a hand to your locked passenger side door.

You looked to your side, Bill humored by their little squabble as the rest of you approached.

“You boys cool with sitting in the back?” You unlocked the passenger side door first, the three noiseist bickering as they fought to climb inside the cab of your truck.

Mike patted the thick coat he wore, pulling the hatch down and setting the tapes in the truckbed as he climbed into the back. “I’m cool.”

Mike helped pull Ben up, who smiled as he settled in the trunk as Stan and Bill followed suit. “Yeah, we’re all good. Just don't drive over potholes, please.”

Bill and Stan scooted to the back of the trunk with Ben, Mike fastening the hatch as you hopped in the driver's seat. Eddie had victoriously claimed the middle, but Beverly and Richie were still squirming, trying to find room as you started up the car.

“Any requests?” You called, digging through your tapes as you let the truck warm up, the engine roaring to life.

From the window that opened to the back, you heard a mumble of different band names. You rolled your eyes, the indecisiveness of the Losers Club nearly legendary. Eddie reached down and snagged two tapes, twisting to speak outside the window.

“Tears For Fears or The Police?” Eddie held up the mixtapes, almost unanimously hearing ‘Tears For Fears’. “Tears For Fears it is.”

Mike gave a little groan, but rested the VHS tapes in his lap and quieted down as you pulled out from your parking spot, allowing Eddie to switch the music. Richie had given up his fight, allowing a smirking Beverly to sit in the passenger side while he propped himself in her lap. He was so tall, it was comical how the attempted to fit himself, and his frustrated expression was priceless.

After a moment of your driving, he gave an angry sigh and laid flat across the seats, curling his legs tight and dropping his head in Eddie’s lap. The boy didn't seem to mind, quickly taking finger to your cousins curls and watching the road as you drove.

You dropped everyone off one by one, saying goodnight to each kid and reminding them to bring their sleeping bags and whatever else they would need. Everyone assured you they would be prepared, and all left with a wave of their hands as they climbed out your truck. Eddie and Richie remained as you dropped Beverly off at her aunt’s home, the two boys having planned a pre-halloween sleepover the week before.

Even with Beverly out the car, Richie laid with his head in Eddie’s lap, gabbing with the smaller boy about how excited he was to have a movie marathon the next day.

As you pulled up to the house, you shot both boys hard looks. “Remember, I’m not going to be available tomorrow night. I’m going out to a party, and I’ll be home late. If anyone tries to murder you, throw Richie’s dirty underwear at them. They’ll suffocate in seconds.”

Richie jumped out the passenger side as you parked the truck, Eddie following as the freshmen cracked up.

Your aunt and uncle sat inside the living room when the three of you walked through the front door, leaving each other on mere snickers as they turned to greet you all.

“Welcome home!” Your aunt called, sounding a little too-sweet.

Eddie smiled back at her, and while you and Richie stood rooted by the entrance, taking off your coats and watching wearily, he engaged in polite conversation.

“Two faced.” You heard Richie mutter, tossing his eyesore of a coat in the closet, and you rested a light hand on his shoulder in silent understanding, ushering him up the stairs.

You couldn't exactly remember when you noticed it. Had it been Richie’s eighth birthday, or had it been Hanukkah back in ‘88? The time didn't matter, it was the donning of a somewhat worrying realization that really meant anything. The situation of the realization was forgotten now, but one thing was for certain, and as much as it hurt to think about, you knew it was the truth.

Richie’s parents ignored him.

Your aunt couldn't connect with him, and your uncle could care less to attempt conversation with his son. They practically avoided him, his parents leaving early in the morning and arriving late at night. Your Aunt Maggie barely noticed if Richie was in the room, and never seemed to spare him a greeting when he walked through the front door. Uncle Wentworth at least left Richie passive aggressive notes about needing to clean his room or do the dishes before he left for work, and would hang his report cards up. That wasn't saying much though.

That wasn't _real_ parenting.

Hell, neither seemed too worried when their only child waltzed through the front door with a face that looked more like hamburger helper than Richie just weeks before.

“Come on,” You followed Richie up the stairs. “Let’s get in comfy clothes and watch tv in the basement before bed.”

Richie tried for a smile with you before Eddie rounded the doorway of the living room, running up the stairs after the two of you. Like a lightswitch, that small sad smile was washed away, replaced with that genuine goofy Richie Tozier grin that you recognized, his lanky arm thrown around Eddie’s tiny shoulders as he lead his best friend down the hall.

“Ed’s, I gotta tell you, you flirting with my mom is hot and all- but you gotta keep it on the down low, you know? My pops will get jealous.”

“Shut the fuck up Richie-” You heard the brunette groan, the two of them disappearing behind a closed door as you made your way to your bedroom, wearing a little grin of your own.

 

* * *

You opened your locker, a hand propped against your stack of textbooks as you glanced inside for your copy of Catcher In The Rye, knowing to take it to class for formality's sake. The inside of the locker was covered top to bottom with taped up pictures and mini posters by then, Christian Slater, Kiefer Sutherland, Judd Nelson and the Two Corey’s staring back at you while you maneuvered your locker’s space. There were a few crudely drawn pictures of musical artists like Pat Benatar, Joan Jett and David Bowie stuck up too, all the handy work of Richie.

“Nice locker, Trashmouth.”

You didn't need to turn, grunting in response to the voice’s owner. Henry slid to the locker beside you, and a searing heat settled on your back, confirming that Patrick was close by, and so you rightly assumed that Belch and Vic were gathering at your side as well.

“Thanks Bowers. Are you holding out hope Christian Slater will pop your cherry too?” You tossed the last of what you needed into your backpack, grinning broadly.

“Funny, Tozier.” He tilted his chin, glowering down at you. “You don’t look like the girl that would go for sissy fags like Slater.”

You clicked your tongue. “Sorry. You’re right. You’re more of a Swayze boy, aren't you?” You closed the locker, leaning a shoulder against it and watching with an amused smile as Henry scowled at you.

“Shut your hole, Tozier. I’m just here you give a friendly warning-”

“Last time you warned me, there was a knife to my throat, Bowers. Was that a ‘friendly warning’ too?” You eyed him with doubt, catching Vic’s guilty expression and how Belch seemed unsettled by your words as well. That confirmed your lingering suspicion that the other half of the Bowers Gang were not exactly thrilled with the violent actions of their leader and his more psychotic right hand man.

As if attempting to collect his patience, Henry’s tongue prodded his cheek and he sighed through his nose. “A warning. Don’t fuck with my house tonight.” He pushed off the locker, pointing accusingly at your chest. “I know your little prick of a cousin has something planned tonight, and it better not involve my house and a carton of eggs.”

You thought for a moment, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. “It involved toilet paper, actually.”

“He dies if he sets foot on my property.” Henry said through gritted teeth and you frowned, smacking away the hand that continued to point at you and invade your personal space.

“He’s going to be at home, watching movies. I already told him not to fuck with you.” You crossed your arms again, shifting away from your locker and clicking the lock shut. “And why aren't you threatening him instead of me?”

There was a moment of hesitation, and it struck you with a sudden sense of cocky gratification that Henry had come to you because he was respecting your own threats from weeks before. He was staying clear of The Losers Club. You had (kind of) won an unspoken battle of wits. He was submitting.

“You’ll listen.” He snapped, lip curling. “And Tozier, you better _listen_ this fucking time. I mean it, he’s DEAD if he does anything.”

“He won't do anything.” You said, careful to keep your expression neutral. “Cross my heart. See you in class.”

You walked away, brushing past him with a thin smile and heading off to class. You felt eyes burn your back as you walked, but your spirits were too high to be shaken.

The party couldn't come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the eagerly awaited Halloween Party chapter, so strap in kiddos, shit is gonna get wild.


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